The Beasts of Battle
for Eleanor
The Eagle
Hibernal folds and fields
of blight in the blue gathering—
a sky for the taking—
a sky, that taken, yields
the Soul’s long drop
where every inch of me glimmers
in God-light—reaching and
reaching until it stops.
The Raven
a dance with H.D.
Nor link nor sark nor skin
shall cover you,
nor glorious shimmer of war
enclose you in triumph of old and trophies,
nor garnet,
nor star.
Nor dream of duns or raths at summer’s
end, nor bright dew
in the morning to quicken you,
nor giver-back of bounty, nor horn
of plenty,
nor rue.
Nor hair nor whit nor name
shall sustain you
when the dog-fennel blossoms again
in the cold field of this night’s gathering
and no one
wakens.
The Wolf
I know that life must end for it goes on
in long paths through the forest and the fold.
The world is filled with what is gone.
Ask the winding field or the crow at dawn—
the forest answers with its strange green hold.
I know that life must end for it goes on.
I wonder who has lost and who has won?
All fallen men look the same in the mould.
The world is filled with what is gone.
Look how quietly the sky comes to one
cradled in the armor of his soul.
I know that life must end for it goes on.
A man is dead when his story is done
(but the man is not dead). Mankind is old.
The world is filled with what is gone.
The way is open now; I feel the sun
that comes again in meadowfoam and gold.
I know that life must end for it goes on.
The world is filled with what is gone.
