Page:Choëphoroe (Murray 1923).djvu/21

Rh

Driven, yea, driven

I come: I bear Peace-offering to the dead,

Mine hands as blades that tear, my tresses riven,

And cheek ploughed red.

But all my years, before this day as after,

Have been fed full with weeping as with bread.

And this dumb cry of linen, as in pain,

Deep rent about my bosom, speaketh plain

Of a life long since wounded, where no laughter

Sounds nor shall sound again.

Dread, very dread,

And hair upstarting and the wrath that streams

From the heart of sleep, have first interpreted

What manner of dreams

This house hath dreamed; a voice of terror, blasting

The midnight, up from the inmost place it grew,

Shaking the women's chambers; and the Seer,

Being sworn of God, made answer, there is here

Anger of dead men wronged, and hate outlasting

Death, against them that slew.

Craving to fly that curse

With graceless gift hither she urgeth me

—O Earth, Mother and Nurse!—

She whom God hateth. But my spirit fears

To speak the word it bears.

When blood is spilt, how shall a gift set free?

O hearthstone wet with tears!

O pillars of a house broken in twain!

Without sun, without love,

Murk in the heart thereof and mist above,

For a lord slain!