Thursday, April 02, 2015

Fifty Pounds a Year and a Pension

I CAN never see the sun walk in the dawn
                                              On a lawn
Where the lark sang mad with rapture as he came
                                              Robed in flame
Racing on to where the mountains' foreheads loom
                                              Through the gloom,

Or notice him at evening give the sea
                                              His last fee,
Or his burnished, ruddy, golden, peaceful sheen
                                              Tread the green,
While the wood with long and longer shadow bends
                                              As he wends.

And my lips will never blow an oaten pipe,
                                              Or the ripe
Glowing berries crush between them from the brake,
                                              Where they make
Such a picture that the gods might know delight
                                              At the sight.

For I've sat my life away with pen and rule
                                              On a stool,
Totting little lines of figures, and so will,
                                              Tho' the chill
And the languor of grey hairs upon my brow
                                              Mocks me now.

And sometimes while I work I lift my eyes
                                              To the skies,
To the foot or two of heaven which I trace
                                              In the space
That a grimy window grudges to the spot
                                              Where I tot.

And I ask the God who made me and the sun,
                                              What I've done
To be buried in this dark and dreary cave
                                              Like a grave,
While the world laughs in scorn now and then
                                              At my pen.

Moving swiftly up and down the columned lines,
                                              Lists of wines
And their prices, tho' the grape I never sip,
                                              For my lip
Is divorced from that enjoyment as from those
                                              That I'd choose.

But I'll sit and work my utmost and not budge,
                                              Tho' a grudge
Is ever growing in the bosom of a clod
                                              'Gainst the God
Who condemned him in his lifetime to grow fit
                                              For the pit.

Insurrections [1909]

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