MY man loads up. We start Upon our journey, climb That long, grey hill, whose hideous granite houses Even this hour of high midsummer prime May not embellish, and whose sight arouses Yet greyer thoughts that eat my lonely heart ... Then, sudden, we emerge upon the moors. All changes. Light and colour, blent, be-spell Me—even as, once, Aeneas, issuing out of Hell. For, lo! There stand, And tow'r, on my left hand, The furze-grown, gorse-clad, heather-haunted Tors, While, on my right, Calm, level, bright, Opposing them, the immense Atlantic gleams. Volitionless, I stay, Spell-bound, in middle way: Ecstasy, sheer amaze O'er-pow'r me, as I gaze On this, our incomparable Cornwall, Duchy of dear dreams. From cot to farm we pass By field-path, lane and stile, At every step we make, my pencil noting Time and the hour. Larks trill. Thin, volatile, Across those upland slopes the clouds go floating. The sun gains strength. The air vibrates. Like glass, Stretches the ocean, otiose, infinite And silent—save at moments when there comes The slow, strong blow of ground-swell, as it booms Upon my ear, Borne up from hidden, sheer Cliff-base beneath, true haunt of troglodyte. Bacchic, divine, An air like wine Exalts my sense. Emotion masters me. I seem to liquidate Some long-due debt to Fate, To touch predestined hour, As, passing grey church-tow'r, I look on Zennor in her lone serenity. My postman plods away To rest-hut, mid-day meal. Instinct, high impulse, urge me go ascending That thrice-dear Tor—which sets such exquisite seal On all around, gives rich and comprehending Vision of headland, cornfield, grass-land, bay ... I climb its boulder-studded foot-track (where An adder, man-shy, slips to shelter). Now I sit, with stone for cushion, on its brow. Before my eyes The shimmering village lies, A haunt of ancient peace, as calm as fair: One to become, Later, my home, In days as yet undreamed-of—thus to be, With what it held, and holds, The friendships it enfolds, With what I was given, and gave, Spent and, thus spending, have ... An integral, essential, permanent part of me. For ghosts go all around— Ghosts of men still un-met. In that grim, granite cottage, closly hiding Amid these haunting hills, awaits me yet Foregathering with our Ernest, whose abiding Therein was lonely past belief, who found In France such enviable, such gallant death. Here, on this Tor, predestined, I, to walk With you, dear Will, sweet Constance; and to talk With Folliott-Stokes, Who penned such passionate books About the Duchy he adored; with long-drawn breath, By Teddie Hain To sweat and strain After his Hounds, exhorted by his horn; Wander with Winifred Austin, who, in their need, Brought Braille to thus-blest Blind; To talk of Art with kind, Affectionate, drunken, pious, pitiful, gay Guy Thorne. Not yet. That time, that hour, Hidden, alike, remain. Fate, cruel-kind, insists upon concealing The stark, the dark, the dour, The intervening decade with its pain, Its passionate griefs, its effort which, annealing My soul to strength and firmness, sends me—free— To Cornwall: sends me issuing forth from Night, To sun myself in intellectual Light. Thus, then, I make My reluctant way, to take Up, once again, detested drudgery. Beside my man To note, re-plan His route—our real selves a myriad miles apart: He, Local Preacher, dreams Of Sunday's sermon. Themes Dazzle and tempt him. I Think, all unceasingly, Of Zennor, sea-girt, sacred ... Zennor of my Heart. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PLACE FOR A THIRD by ROBERT FROST THE OCTOROON by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON TRIFLE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON SURFACES AND MASKS; 4 by CLARENCE MAJOR SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: REV. LEMUEL WILEY by EDGAR LEE MASTERS ON AN UNFINISHED STATUE BY MICHAEL ANGELO by GEORGE SANTAYANA |