Rolfe Humphries

Keen is the wind, Barren the land. A man could stand On a single stalk.

Cattle are lean, The stag is thin, All color wan On the frozen lake.

Idle the shield On an old man's shoulder. Halls are cold. I have a wound.

Where warriors go I cannot follow Through flying snow In this wild wind.

The trees are bowed In the bare wood; There is no shade In any vale.

The reeds are dry And a loud crying Howls outside The horse's stall.

The light is short. Sorrow and hurt Harry the heart With inward war.

So an old man Does what he can, Stares through the pane At night's black square.

Dark is this maze wherein I err. No Theseus I; no comforter, No Ariadne at my side, to hold Her golden skein as guide.

Dark is this maze; I cannot see The sword held out in front of me. I have no shield; my other arm must find The blind way through this harm.

Dark is this maze, roofed in, with vault and stair Where I must often halt, Descend or climb, wait, listen, hear The skipping heartbeat of my fear.

Dark is this maze, but I must know it more, Explore, before I go Free to the light, the pit, the den, Whose two-formed monster feeds on men.

I hear him bellow, far from here. I feel, I smell him, very near. I spin, I strike a blow that finds no mark. Dark is this maze. I know.

Pure gold, they said in her praise: So I walk my autumn ways, Around me a golden haze

From the ground, in leaves, in air— Oh, everywhere, everywhere!— To save, to spend, and to share.

By the door, with evening light, Westering, lingering late Over lane and lawn and lot

The leaves of the lilac hold The shape of the heart, pure gold, As if I need to be told,

As if I need reminding, Toward chill November's ending, Of warmth and love abounding.

A light-capped sea, and a bird-bright shore— Whatever else was I looking for, With sun at my back, blue sky above me? A dark-haired girl by an open door.

A dark-haired girl in a scarlet dress, An invitation from loveliness: Will you touch me deep, will you share my sleep, Will you come, or keep me comfortless?

The sun at my back, blue sky above, But over that sill who would not move? For the light-capped sea and the bird-bright shore Said never a word against my love.

The scarlet dress came over her head, Her skin was as white as her silken bed: Whisper me softly, pleasure me deftly, Leave me not swiftly, she said, she said.

The sea, light-capped, and the shore, bird-bright, By day outdoors are a shining sight, But a scarlet dress, over chair or floor, Silk bed, and dark hair, are fine for night.

The bells of Aberdovey Sound from a buried city Sunken far under the sea, Heard when the nights are stormy And carried inland, faintly, As far as Montgomery. Hearken! Music of the lost Haunts that coast, all shadowy.

And there could be voices there, Leagues and fathoms down, a choir Whose intoning reaches far Out along that lonely shore Up to ghostly cloud and air, Cadences profound and pure, Solemn choral, when the bell Has tolled the knell of the hour.

As winds on earth go over, Aeolian-wise, to stir Response of harp or zither, So, under ocean-water, Currents deeper and stronger Sweep strings of salt and silver In their ultramarine room, Break off, resume, and linger.

Hearken again! Is the lull Pause of canticle or bell, Rest or silence? Who can tell? During this calm interval The stones of sarn and sea-wall Come closer; call to them, call The music, sound or echo, From undertow and ground-swell.

It is lonely. In these short days Without her praise I, too, grow less.

The Druids' tree Is far more wise In the mean ways Of wintriness,

Clings to the leaf, However dry, Will not deny By letting go.

Seasons are brief, Sorrow goes by; Hold on till May, This will be over.

This will be gone, Hill, field, and stream Ripple and gleam In supple gloss

Of shining sun, And waking seem A healing dream,— Oh yes, oh yes!

Owain ap Urien, Prince of Rheged, Bade his banner Be raised again; Rallied his ravens, Thrice a hundred, A black bane To Arthur's army.

Owain and Arthur Studied each other Over the chess-board Made all of silver. "Owain," said Arthur, "Forbid thy ravens." "Play thy game, Lord!" Said Owain.

The wingèd warriors Far from forbidden By that banner Rose up, wrathful; Tumult and triumph Took them and tossed them, Fierce in their fury From hurt and pain.

Over the chess-board Owain and Arthur, Poring, marvelled, Paused and hearkened. "Owain," said Arthur, "Forbid thy ravens." "Play thy game, Lord!" Said Owain.

The weather darkened. To Arthur's side A knight came riding, All flame and scarlet, Whose lance, blue-shafted, From point to haft Was darker dyed With blood and plumage.

"Carest thou not, O King," he cried, For thy young men slain, For thy household's damage?" "Owain," said Arthur, "Forbid thy ravens." "Play thy game, Lord!" Said Owain.

From the board of silver, Very slowly, With thumb and finger Arthur lifted One golden bishop. In Arthur's fist The golden bishop Crumbled to dust.

Then Owain beckoned His younger brother, A prince of Rheged, Giving the order To have his banner Lowered again. So it was lowered, And peace did reign.

Like seaweed under water, The uneventful trees Move at my window In the mist of the morning.

If I could count the leaves And multiply them by The number of seasons left me, And were every leaf a love, There would still not be enough To have before I die.

Ah, what stubborn stuff I waken to find In the cells of the mind On the sills of the morning.