To Archibald MacLeish The afternoon with heavy hours Lies vacant on the wanderer`s sight And sunset waits whose cloudy towers Expect the legions of the night Till sullen thunder from the cave Of twilight with deliberate swell Whispers the air his darkening slave To loose the nether bolts of hell To crush the battlements of cloud The wall of light around the West So that the swarming dark will crowd The traveller upon his quest And all the air with heavy hours Sinks on the wanderer`s dull sight And the thick dark whose hidden towers Menace his travel to the night Rolls forward, backward hill to hill Until the seeker knows not where Beyond the shade of Peachers` Mill In the burnt meadow, with colourless hair The secret ones around a stone Their lips withdrawn in meet surprise Lie still, being naught but bone With naught but space within their eyes Until bewildered by the road And half-forgetful of his quest The wanderer with such a load Of breathing, being too late a guest Turns back, so near the secret stone, Falls down breathless at last and blind, And a dark shift within the bone Brings him the end he could not find.SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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