I remember the tress, and the high, white walls, and how the sun was always on the
towers;
The walls are standing to-day, and the gates; I have been through the gates, I have
groped, I have crept
Back, back. There is dust in the streets, and blood; they are empty; darkness is over
them;
His heart is a place with the lights gone out, forsaken by great winds and the heavenly
rain, unclean and unswept,
Like the heart of the holy city, old blind, beautiful Jerusalem;
Over which Christ wept
Over my head the curlews call, And now there is the night wind in my hair;My heart is against the grass and the sweet earth, – it has gone still, at last;It does not want to beat any more,And why should it beat?This is the end of the journey.The Thing is found.This is the end…
Their scarlet petals from the beds unsweptLike children unloved and ill-keptDreamed through the hours Two blue hydrangeas by the blistered door burned brownWatched there, and no one in the townCared to go past it night or dayThough why this was they wouldn’t sayBut I, the stranger, knew that I must stay.Pace up the weed-grown paths…
I see myself among the crowd,Where no one fits the singer to his song,Or sifts the unpainted from the painted facesOf the people who are always on my stair;They were not with me when I walked in heavenly places;But could I spareIn the blind Earth’s great silences and spaces,The din, the scuffle, the long stareIf…
Rarer than books and ribbons and beads bright to see,This little Key of Dreams out of my pack.The road, the road, beyond men’s bolted doors,There shall I walk and you go free of me,For yours lies North across the moors,And mine lies South. To what seas?How if we stopped and let our solemn selves go…
I shall miss the sycamore more I suppose,Than anything else on this earth that is out in green.But I mean to go through the door without fear,Not caring much what happens hereWhen I’m away: —How green the screen is across the panesOr who goes laughing along the lanesWith my old lover all the summer day.
But no man can move mountains in a day.So this hard thing is yet to do.But first I want your life:–before I die I want to seeThe world that lies behind the strangeness of your eyes,There is nothing gay or green there for my gathering, it may be,Yet on brown fields there liesA haunting purple…
