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I shall not pass this way again, No use to whisper "stay!" into my ear: I hear, but that is all I may; Entranced by more than nature's charms, A breeze upon a sea becalmed, Slide I from here. Yet not that this too peaceful scene Lacks all the promises by which love tempts. Oh, the longing for a life serene Is well-met here: a quiet street Through fields of barleycorn and wheat Winds gently thence To tie, as lifeline, cottage homes Each to the other, one great family Of thatched roofs, whitewashed walls of stone, Of gardens where sweet roses bloom, And no more do they than presume Simplicity. And from those walls where ivy climbs, T'ward heaven, windowed eyes look out upon The village square, where often a time Two friends or neighbours pause to greet And pass an hour pleasantly, Then on beyond To forest stretching out betwixt The farmlands, landscape patterned gold and green, Where farmhands, seemingly bewitched, Pace out day's pageant; sunlight falls But softly on such pastoral, Idyllic scenes. Nor think that I disdain love's schemes, I'd seize their offered chance as soon as choose; And such is all a free man dreams ... But, no. Such things are far from hope – I see the future as I see a rope, Tied as a noose. I shall not pass this way again, Your village nestling by its dark, warm woods May tempt me – and I might remain Some longer space, yield to its spell (Was't this the lotos-eaters felt?) If that I could. But hour on hour my lines are laid Into the distance as a track of steel Unending, although much evades A vision aimed by mortal eye: All that I know is guided by All that I feel. Rise up! rise up, from hostess hearth, No roof for thee, my soul, but open skies, No matter that their stormy wrath Dissolve the spell which summer wound Thorough thy spindle, fate, for thou Art winter-wise. Lead on! lead on, down to the vale Which through the world is drawn, shadows' abode, Abundant with adventurous tales – Had any man from thence returned To tell, where he had delved, what learned From mother-lode. Old thoughts be still, your day is done, Once-glittering hopes of star-spray dust, to dust Are laid, in earth, cold, covered, gone; Those few which, stubborn, seek to cling Shall scattered be by winter wind's First icy gust. |
| (1979) |
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| photos: Stephen Alsford |
| Created: November 17, 2014. Last modified: April 4, 2015 | © Stephen Alsford |