The Thread upon the Loom, I

I

The seed I cast abroad grew naught but weeds,
The words sown to redeem bore mocking smiles
And onerous contempt for all my pain.
The more I swam against the rising tide,
The more it choked and drew me to the deep.
Exhausted and despairing, I withdrew
From the arena to retire away
To silent solitude, intending not
To e’er return unto the realm of men.
“If so they will,” I sneered, “then let them rot.
If they wish not to hear, let them die deaf.
If they wish not to see, let blindness be
Their solace as they rush upon the rocks!
But give my life to save theirs I shall not.
I go unto the fields and birds and hills
That need no saving; trees and mountains high
Shall be my home and only company.
May I forget and be forgotten there.”

And thus I fled the mortal compass, but
I knew not what I sought, and wandered round
The world with aimless steps, until I came
Unto the quiet English countryside.
The need of fellowship I felt, but thought
The grim society of graves best fit
My morbid mood; within a churchyard still,
I pondered long amidst the monuments,
Whose deep inscriptions told of men long dead
Who were thought fit to be remembered thus.
I sought the name of no one, rather let
My eyes rove ‘round and fall where fate would will.
If one I found that held my gaze and thoughts,
I sat upon the grass and pondered there
On what this man or wife or child had been
Or even might have been, but never was.

I therefore loosed my mind to wander midst
The labyrinthine mists of Time’s dark hall,
Midst fires burned down to ashes on the hearth
And feasts untouched within a silent hall,
Whose golden glory faded and decayed.
With spectral crowds I celebrated births
And mourned the deaths; imagination did
Supply the substance to these shadows, strange
Companions. So I danced with ghosts within
The secret, silent halls of Time.
One partner thus exhausted, languid eyes
Would restless wander to the next, and thus
Proceed again to search behind the veil
Of secrecy with which the gravestones
Hid jealously their histories of men.

But sev’ral hours spent in musing thus,
My mind grew weary of this pastime;
My eyes espied beyond the tombs,
But in the grounds, a little hillock with
An ancient oak atop its crown. I made
My way among the graves, until they fell
Behind my back; I climbed the gentle slope,
And I admired the ancient landmark, which,
If it could speak, could tell me every scene
I had imagined, having seen it all.
I ran my hand upon the roughened bark,
Whose weathered visage told of days long past.
And there, beneath the boughs, against the bark,
I lay, and slumber, creeping soft, stept near
And overcame my consciousness; I slept
Beneath the boughs, and as I slept, I dreamt.