---

Christopher Brennan - The Watch At Midnight
Work rating: Low

Dead stars, beneath the midnight`s granite cope 
 and round your dungeon-gulf that blindly grope 
 and fall not, since no lower than any place 
 needs when the wing is dash`d and foil`d the face: 
 is this your shadow on the watcher`s thought 
 imposed, or rather hath his anguish taught 
 the dumb and suffering dark to send you out, 
 reptile, the doubles of his lurking doubt, 
 in coasts of night that well might be supposed 
 the exiled hall of chaos late-deposed, 
 to haunt across this hour`s desuetude, 
 immense, that whelms in monumental mood 
 the broad waste of his spirit, stonily 
 strewn with the wreck of his eternity? 

 The plumes of night, unfurl`d 
 and eyed with fire, are whirl`d 
 slowly above this watch, funereal: 
 the vast is wide, and yet 
 no way lies open; set 
 no bar, but the flat deep rises, a placid wall. 
 Some throne thou think`st to win 
 or pride of thy far kin; 
 this incomplete and dusty hour to achieve: 
 know that the hour is one, 
 eternally begun, 
 eternally deferr`d, thy grasp a Danaid sieve. 
 O weary realm, O height 
 the which exhausted flight 
 familiar finds, home of its prompting ill! 
 here, there, or there, or there, 
 even the same despair; 
 rest in thy place, O fool, the heart eludes thee still. 
 Rest — and a new abyss 
 suddenly yawns, of this 
 the moment sole, and yet the counterpart: 
 and thou must house it, thou, 
 within thy fleshy Now, 
 thyself the abyss that shrinks, the unbounded hermit-heart: 
 the mightier heart untold 
 whose paining depths enfold 
 all loneliness, all height, all vision`d shores; 
 and the abyss uncrown`d, 
 blank failure thro` each bound 
 from the consummate point thy broken hope implores. 

 The trees that thro` the tuneful morn had made 
 bride-dusk for beams that pierce the melting shade, 
 or thro` the opulent afternoon had stood 
 lordly, absorb`d in hieratic mood, — 
 now stricken with misgiving of the night 
 rise black and ominous, as who invite 
 some fearful coming whose foreblown wind shall bow, 
 convuls`d and shuddering, each dishevell`d brow: 
 the garden that had sparkled thro` its sheen 
 all day, a self-sufficing gem serene, 
 hiding in emerald depths the vision`d white 
 of limbs that follow their own clear delight, 
 exhales towards the inaccessible skies, 
 commencing, failing, broken, scents or sighs: 

 O mother, only, 
 where that thou hidest thee, 
 crown for the lonely brow, 
 bosom for the spent wanderer, 
 or balm for ache: 
 O mother, 
 nightly — 
 undiscoverable — 
 O heart too vast to find, 
 whelming our little desire: 
 we wander and fail — 
 But on the zenith, mass`d, a glittering throng, 
 the distant stars dropt a disdainful song: 

 They said, because their parcel-thought 
 might nor her shadowy vast embrace, 
 nor be refurl`d within that nought 
 which is the hid heart of all place, 
 they said: She is not anywhere! 
 have we not sought her and not seen? 
 nor is there found in earth or air 
 a sign to tell if she hath been! 
 — O fools and blind, not to have found! 
 is her desire not as your own? 
 stirs she not in the arms that round 
 a hopeless clasp, lone with the lone! 
 And the tense lips towards her bliss 
 in secret cells of anguish`d prayer 
 might know her in the broken kiss 
 she prompts nor, prompting, fails to share. 
 We drift from age to age nor waste 
 our strenuous song`s exultant tone, 
 disdaining or to rest or haste: 
 because each place is still our throne. 

 The anguish`d doubt broods over Eden; night 
 hangs her rent banners thro` the viewless height; 
 trophies and glories whence a trouble streams 
 of lamentable valour in old dreams: 
 out of its blank the watcher`s soul is stirr`d 
 to take unto itself some olden word: 

 O thou that achest, pulse o` the unwed vast, 
 now in the distant centre of my brain 
 dizzily narrow`d, now beyond the last 
 calm circle widening of the starry plain, 
 where, on the scatter`d edge of my surmise, 
 the twilit dreams fail off and rule is spent 
 vainly on vagrant bands the gulfs invite 
 to break away to the dark: they, backward sent, 
 tho` dumb, with dire infection in their eyes, 
 startle the central seat: — O pulse of night, 
 passing the hard throb of sun-smitten blood 
 when the noon-world is fused in fire and blent 
 with my then unattained hero-mood; 
 what will with me the imperious instinct 
 that hounds the gulfs together on that place 
 vanishing utterly out of mortal trace, 
 the citadel where I would seem distinct — 
 if not thou ween`st a vanity, my deep 
 unlighted still, the which thy refluent sweep 
 intolerably dilates, a tide that draws 
 with lunatic desire, distraught and fond, 
 to some dark moon of vastness, hung beyond 
 our little limits of familiar cause, 
 as tho` the tense and tortured voids should dash 
 ruining amorously together, a clash 
 portentous with some rose of thinnest flame, 
 secret, exhaled in the annull`d abyss, 
 that, with this soul, passes in that fell kiss 
 and to the soft-sprung flush all sanctity 
 surrenders, centring in the blossom`d Name, 
 as the dark wings of silence lovingly 
 hover above the adventurous song that fares 
 forth to the void and finds no lip that shares 
 its rapture, just the great wings spreading wide. 

 O mother thou or sister or my bride, 
 inevitable, whom this hour in me declares, 
 were thine of old such rhythmic pangs that bore 
 my shivering soul, wind-waif upon the shore 
 that is a wavering twilight, thence astray 
 beneath the empty plainness of the day? 
 me thy first want conceived to some dim end, 
 that my unwelcom`d love might henceward tend 
 to the dumb home that draws it in thy breast 
 and the veil`d couch of some divine incest, 
 where thou didst wait some hour of sharp delight 
 to wither up in splendour the stark night 
 and haggard shame that ceremented thy dearth, 
 with purest diamond-blaze, some overbirth 
 of the dark fire thy foresight did enmesh 
 within this hither and thither harried flesh? 
 Ay, yet obscurely stirs, a monstrous worm 
 in the rear cavern of my dazzled thought, 
 a memory that wavers, formless form 
 of superhuman nuptials, clasp`d and caught 
 unto the breast that is our loathed tomb: 
 then, issuing from the violated womb, 
 tremendous birth of dreadful prodigies 
 begotten on the apocalyptic skies: 
 one moment`s hope, one thrill alone was given 
 of pinions beating up the parting heaven; 
 but straight thereon the spectral mirk was riven 
 by shapes of snaky horror, grisly jaw, 
 cold fear, and scaly fold, and endless maw. 
 What terror clutch`d me, even as ecstasy 
 smote dire across transfigured mystery? 
 and whose the sin that doom`d thee to disgrace, 
 to haunt the shapeless dark, a burning face, 

 eyes that would cling to mine and lips that seek 
 some baffled kiss, some word they may not speak, 
 condemn`d to yearn where the worn foam is hoar 
 and vain against the unshaken nightly shore. 
 Nightly thy tempting comes, when the dark breeze 
 scatters my thought among the unquiet trees 
 and sweeps it, with dead leaves, o`er widow`d lands 
 and kingdoms conquer`d by no human hands; 
 nightly thou wouldst exalt me in the deep, 
 crown`d with the morn that shines beyond our sleep, 
 nightly renew those nuptials, and re-win 
 virginity, and shed the doubtful sin: 
 but I am born into dividual life 
 and I have ta`en the woman for my wife, 
 a flowery pasture fenced and soft with streams, 
 fill`d with slow ease and fresh with eastern beams 
 of coolest silver on the sliding wave: 
 such refuge the derisive morning gave, 
 shaped featly in thy similitude, to attract 
 earthward the gusty soul thy temptings rack`d. 
 I sicken with the long unsatisfied 
 waiting: the sombre gulfs of night divide: 
 no dawn is shown that keeps its grace nor soon 
 degraded not to brutal fires of noon; 
 and heavy on my soul the tyrant lays 
 his hand, and dazzles with his common blaze 
 eyes that are fain, when evening brings the dew, 
 to cool them in the grasses: few, how few 
 are now the hours that thou mayst claim as thine! 
 — And shall I not take heart? if no divine 
 revealment star me with the diadem 
 hermetic, magian, alchemic gem, 
 shall I not feel the earth with firmer tread 

 if abdicating to the viewless dead 
 the invaluable round of nothingness? 
 Kingdom awaits me, homage, swords, liesse, 
 battle, broad fame in fable, song: shall I 
 confide all hope to scanty shapes that fly 
 in dreams, whom even if they be all I know 
 not, or fore-runners of the One? I go, 
 shaking them from my spirit, to rule and mould 
 in mine own shape the gods that shall be old. 
 — Nay, not thus lightly, heart the winds have mock`d! 
 wings of fierce winds that o`er the star-strown height 
 sweep, and adown the wide world-ways unlock`d 
 feign for thy trouble a last conclusive fight: 
 O heart wherethro` these insolent powers stray, 
 pass and repass, and thou dost foolish hold 
 aught else inspires them than their cynic play, 
 the aimless idle sport they plann`d of old 
 to while the waste hours of their tedious state 
 and shall pursue when thou art seal`d in dust, 
 thou latest toy, framed for this silly fate, 
 to watch their pastime turning, tremble and trust 
 some deathless gain for thee should issue of it 
 imblazed in stars on some thy kindred`s brow; 
 O thou, all laughable for thy short wit, 
 not lightly thus shalt thou put off their slight 
 and steady thee to build in their despite 
 secure, some seat, and hold thy being safe, 
 joying in this at last that thou art thou, 
 distinct, no longer in wilful tides a waif: 
 O heart the winds have emptied of all clear 
 and natural impulse, O wasted brain 
 and spirit expent with straining from thy sphere, 
 turn thee to earth, if that be not a cheat, 

 and, childlike, lay thee in her torpid lap, 
 there to reflush these flaccid veins with sap 
 from spilth of sleep, where herbs of drowsy bane 
 spring in slow shade and death is sprinkled sweet, 
 with promis`d coolness dark — perchance a lure.. 
 Thou sleep, at least, receive and wrap me sure 
 in midmost of thy softness, that no flare, 
 disastrous, from some rending of the veil, 
 nor dawn from springs beyond thy precincts, rare 
 with revelation, risen, or dewy-pale 
 exhaled from fields of death, disturb that full 
 absorption of robustness, and I wake 
 in placid large content, replete and dull, 
 fast-grown to earth, whom winds no longer shake. 

 Thick sleep, with error of the tangled wood, 
 and vapour from the evening marsh of sense, 
 and smoothness of the glide of Lethe, would 
 inaugurate his dullard innocence, 
 cool`d of his calenture, elaborate brute: 
 but, all deceitful of his craven hope, 
 the devious and covert ways of dream 
 shall lead him out upon no temper`d beam 
 or thick-grass`d ease, where herbs of soothing shoot 
 in asphodel, but on the shuddering scope 
 and the chill touch of endless distances 
 still thronging on the wingless soul that flees 
 along the self-pursuing path, to find 
 the naked night before it and behind. 
 What night is this, made denser, in his breast 
 or round him, suddenly or first confest 
 after its gradual thickening complete? 
 as tho` the mighty current, bearing fleet 
 the unresting stars, had here devolved its lees, 
 stagnant, contempt, on recreant destinies; 
 as tho` a settling of tremendous pens, 
 above the desolate dream, had shed immense 
 addition to the incumbence of despair 
 downward, across this crypt of stirless air, 
 from some henceforth infrangible attitude, 
 upon his breast, that knows no dawn renew`d, 
 builded enormously, each brazen stage, 
 with rigor of his hope in hopeless age 
 mummied, and look that turns his thew to stone: 
 even hers, that is his strangling sphinx, made known 
 with, on her breast, his fore-erected tomb, 
 engraven deep, the letters of his doom. 

 Terrible, if he will not have me else, 
 I lurk to seize and strangle, in the cells 
 where he hath made a dusk round his delight: 
 whether he woo the bride`s incarnate bright 
 and natural rose to shimmer thro` the dense 
 of odour-motes whereby the brooding sense 
 flows forth beyond its aching bounds and lies, 
 full-brimm`d and sombre, around her clear disguise 
 that saturates the dusk with secret gold; 
 or the miraculous rose of Heaven to unfold 
 out from its heart of ruby fire and rain 
 unceasing drift of petals, and maintain 
 a tabernacle about the little hour 
 where his eternity hath phantom power: 
 and terrible I am moulded in the stone 
 that clamps for ever, rigid, stark, alone, 
 round nought but absence of the man he was, 
 some cell of that cold space against whose laws 
 he seeks a refuge in his inner deep 
 of love, and soften`d fire, and quicken`d sleep, 
 tho` knowing that I, the bride his sin dethroned 
 and exiled to the wastes that lie disown`d, 
 can bring that icy want even to the heart 
 of his most secret bliss, that he shall start 
 aghast, to see its burning centre fade 
 and know his hope, the impious, vain, unmade. 
 Lo now, beneath the watch of knitted boughs 
 he lies, close-folded to his newer spouse, 
 creature of morn, that hath ordain`d its fresh 
 dew and cool glimmer in her crystal flesh 
 sweetly be mix`d, with quicken`d breath of leaves 
 and the still charm the spotless dawning weaves. 
 But I have set my hand upon his soul 

 and moulded it to my unseen control; 
 and he hath slept within my shadowy hair 
 and guards a memory how in my far lair 
 the forces of tremendous passion stir: 
 my spectral face shall come between his eyes 
 and the soft face of her, my name shall rise, 
 unutter`d, in each thought that goes to her; 
 and in the quiet waters of her gaze 
 shall lurk a siren-lure that beckons him 
 down halls of death and sinful chambers dim: 
 he shall not know her nor her gentle ways 
 nor rest, content, by her sufficing source, 
 but, under stress of the veil`d stars, shall force 
 her simple bloom to perilous delight 
 adulterate with pain, some nameless night 
 stain`d with miasm of flesh become a tomb: 
 then baffled hope, some torch o` the blood to illume 
 and flush the jewel hid beyond all height, 
 and sombre rage that burst the holy bourne 
 of garden-joy, murdering innocence, 
 and the distraught desire to bring a kiss 
 unto the fleeting centre of the abyss, 
 discovering the eternal lack, shall spurn 
 even that sun-god`s garden of pure sense, 
 not wisely wasted with insensate will. 
 I am his bride and was and shall be still, 
 tho` infamous as devil`s dam, a fear 
 to wives that watch the cradle-side and hear 
 how I devour the newling flesh, and none 
 shall void my claim upon his latest son, 
 because the father fell beneath my harm, 
 not god invented late, nor anxious charm; 
 tho` with the chemic mind he holds in trust 

 to show me gem, he celebrate the dust; 
 dumb earth, in garb of borrow`d beauty dight 
 by the fond day that curtains him in light; 
 green pleasaunces, whose smiling would attest 
 his heart true-born of her untroubled breast 
 and leaves that beckon on the woodland ways 
 of the stream-side, where expectation strays 
 of water-brides, swift blight to them that see, 
 because the waters are to mirror me:— 
 of these his hunted thought, seeking retreat 
 in narrow light, and some sure bosom-heat 
 to cherish him, and friendly face of kin, 
 shall mould him fancied ancestors, to win 
 some certitude that he is in his home 
 rescued from any doom that bids him roam, 
 and him the blossom of the day presume, 
 unheeding that its roots are in my womb 
 nor song may breathe a magic unconfest 
 of the anterior silence of my breast: 
 but I shall lurk within the sightless stare 
 of his impassive idols, housing there 
 an unknown that allures and makes him fain 
 to perish for his creatures` fancied gain; 
 and they shall gaze and see not while his brood 
 befouls their stony presence with much blood, 
 their children`s, and their captive enemies`, 
 stretch`d out, exenterate, on those callous knees, 
 and, last, their own, ere some ill-fortuned field 
 drink all of it, since faith forbids them yield 
 and brings to learn in full, the fool`s just trade, 
 the gratitude of gods themselves have made. 
 Last, since a pinch of dust may quench the eyes 
 that took the azure curve of stainless skies 

 and still the fiercest heart, he seeks to whelm 
 infinite yearning with a little realm, 
 beating together with ungentle hands, 
 enslaved, the trembling spawn of generous lands, 
 whom he shall force, a busy swarm, to raise, 
 last bulwarks of his whelming discontent, 
 heaven-threatening Babels, iron Ninevehs 
 square-thought with rigid will, a monument 
 of stony rage in high defiant stones 
 eternized with blasphemous intent, 
 and carve the mountain-cone to hide his bones, 
 a wonder to blank tribes of shrunken days: 
 but in that cave before his upstart gates 
 where elder night endures unshaken, waits 
 that foe of settled peace, the smiling sphinx, 
 or foul Echidna`s mass`d insidious links, 
 reminding him that all is vanities; 
 and when, at last, o`er his nine roods he lies, 
 stretch`d in the sarcophage whereover grief 
 makes way before one huge gust of relief, 
 not the wing-blast of his vain shade shall drive 
 his wizen`d captives from their dungeon-hive, 
 and make a solitude about his bed; 
 nor the chill thought petrific his low head 
 exudes in rays of darkness, that beyond 
 this perturb`d sphere congeal, an orb of dread: 
 I, Lilith, on his tomb immensely throned, 
 with viewless face and viewless vans outspread; 
 in the wide waste of his unhallow`d work, 
 calm coils of fear, my serpent-brood shall lurk; 
 and I shall muse above the little dust 
 that was the flesh that held my word in trust. 
 Warrior and prince and poet, thou that fain 
 over some tract of lapsing years wouldst reign 

 nor know`st the crown that all thy wants confess 
 is Lilith`s own, the round of nothingness: 
 warrior, whose witless game is but to feel 
 thyself authentic thro` the wielded steel 
 and give thy ghost assurance that thou art, 
 what aimless endless wars shall make thy heart 
 arena for the wheeling of their play! 
 king, that wast mighty in the easy way 
 of thy desire, what time these thews were young, 
 how bitter is the wisdom on thy tongue 
 in the late season, when a westering sun 
 shows thee thy work, that it is evil done! 
 O priest and poet, thou that makest God, 
 woe, when the path of thine illusion, trod 
 even to the end, reveals thee thy worn face, 
 eternal hermit of the unhallow`d place! 
 O man, the coward hope of thy despair 
 to be confounded with the driven air, 
 the grass that grows and knows not, the kind herds 
 that are not wrought with dreams nor any words, 
 to hollow out some refuge sunk as deep 
 as that was high thou hadst not sense to keep, 
 and here thy vexing shade to obliterate 
 ensuring that it rise not, soon or late, 
 thou knowing I claim thee whole when that thou art dead. 
 Go forth: be great, O nothing. I have said. 

 Thus in her hour of wrath, o`er Adam`s head 
 Lilith, then first reveal`d, a name of dread, 
 thus in her hour of sorrow: and the rage, 
 that drove the giant-hunters in that age 
 since whelm`d beneath the weltering cataclysm, 
 was the mad flight from her instant abysm 
 and iron sadness and unsatisfied 
 despair of kings that by Euphrates` side 
 rein the wing`d steer or grasp the stony mane 
 of lions dared, if so they might obtain 
 surcease of lingering unnamed distress. 
 And if she kept the word forgetfulness 
 absorb`d, sole ear of sunken sleep, it is 
 to them that wander thro` Persepolis, 
 Ekbatan, or where else o`er arrow`d bricks 
 her snakes make the dry noise of trodden sticks, 
 known and well-known how that revolt was dash`d 
 and cruel keeps with lustral silence wash`d. 
 A name of dread reveal`d: and tho` forgot 
 in strenuous times to whom the lyre was not, 
 yet, when her hour awoke, the peoples heard 
 her coming and the winds no more deferr`d 
 that sweep along the expected day of wrath, 
 and rear`d the soaring aisles along her path 
 to house the massive gloom where she might dwell, 
 conjectured, hovering, impenetrable, 
 while o`er the mortal terror crouch`d beneath 
 the shuddering organ pour`d black wave of death; 
 when man withheld his hand from life, in fear 
 to find her, temptress, in the flesh most dear 
 or on the lowliest ways of simple peace — 
 vain-weening he that thus their feud might cease: 
 ay, and the cynic days that thought them blest 
 to know this earth a plunder-ground confest 

 and calm within them of the glutted beast 
 knew her, the emptiness that, when the feast 
 hath quench`d its lamps, makes, in the invaded hall, 
 stray`d steps, reverberated from the wall, 
 sound on the ear like some portentous stride, 
 companion`s fixt, to mock our tread, beside, 
 nor near and show his apprehended guise 
 familiar, ease to our intended eyes. 
 Lilith, a name of dread: yet was her pain 
 and loving to her chosen ones not vain 
 hinted, who know what weight of gelid tears 
 afflicts the widow`d uplands of the spheres, 
 and whence the enrapturing breaths are sent that bring 
 a perfume of the secular flowering 
 of the far-bleeding rose of Paradise, 
 that mortal hearts in censer-fume arise 
 unto the heart that were an ardent peace, 
 and whence the sibyl-hints of song, that cease 
 in pale and thrilling silence, lest they wrong 
 her beauty, whose love bade live their fleeting throng, 
 even hers, who is the silence of our thought, 
 as he that sleeps in hush`d Valvins hath taught. 

 She is the night: all horror is of her 
 heap`d, shapeless, on the unclaim`d chaotic marsh 
 or huddled on the looming sepulchre 
 where the incult and scanty herb is harsh. 
 She is the night: all terror is of her 
 when the distemper`d dark begins to boil 
 with wavering face of larve and oily blur 
 of pallor on her suffocating coil. 
 Or majesty is hers, when marble gloom 
 supports her, calm, with glittering signs severe 
 and grandeur of metallic roof of doom, 
 far in the windows of our broken sphere. 
 Or she can be all pale, under no moon 
 or star, with veiling of the glamour cloud, 
 all pale, as were the fainting secret soon 
 to be exhaled, bride-robed in clinging shroud. 
 For she is night, and knows each wooing mood: 
 and her warm breasts are near in the charm`d air 
 of summer eve, and lovingly delude 
 the aching brow that craves their tender care. 
 The wooing night: all nuptials are of her; 
 and she the musky golden cloud that hangs 
 on maiden blood that burns, a boding stir 
 shot thro` with flashes of alluring pangs, 
 far off, in creeks that slept unvisited 
 or moved so smoothly that no ripple creas`d 
 their mirror`d slip of blue, till that sweet dread 
 melted the air and soft sighs stole, releas`d; 

 and she the shame of brides, veiling the white 
 of bosoms that for sharp fulfilment yearn; 
 she is the obscure centre of delight 
 and steals the kiss, the kiss she would return 
 deepen`d with all the abysm that under speech 
 moves shudderingly, or as that gulf is known 
 to set the astonied spouses each from each 
 across the futile sea of sighs, alone. 
 All mystery, and all love, beyond our ken, 
 she woos us, mournful till we find her fair: 
 and gods and stars and songs and souls of men 
 are the sparse jewels in her scatter`d hair. 

 This rose, the lips that kiss, and the young breast 
 they kindle, flush`d throughout its waking snows; 
 and this, that tremulous on the morning blows, 
 heart`s youth some golden dew of dream hath blest; 
 auroras, grace and sooth! no tragic west 
 shed splendid the red anger of your close: 
 how soon within this wandering barrow grows 
 the canker`d heap of petals once caress`d! 
 Old odours of the rose are sickening; night, 
 hasten above the corpse of old delight, 
 if in decay the heart cherish some heat, 
 to breed new spice within the charnel-mould, 
 that eyes unseal`d with living dew may greet 
 the morning of the deathless rose of gold.
Source
The script ran 0.008 seconds.