Page:Collected poems vol 1 de la mare.djvu/56

 Till, wearied out, it raved in wrath and foam, Daring that Nought Invisible to come.

Ay, and it seemed some strange delight to find
 * In this unmeaning din, till, suddenly,

As if it heard a rumour on the wind,
 * Or far away its freer children cry,

Lifting its face made-quiet, there it stayed, Till died the echo its own rage had made.

That place alone was barren where it lay;
 * Flowers bloomed beyond, utterly sweet and fair;

And even its own dull heart might think to stay
 * In livelong thirst of a clear river there,

Flowing from unseen hills to unheard seas, Through a still vale of yew and almond trees.

And then I spied in the lush green below
 * Its tortured belly. One, like silver, pale,

With fingers closed upon a rope of straw,
 * That bound the Beast, squat neck to hoary tail;

Lonely in all that verdure faint and deep, He watched the monster as a shepherd sheep.

I marvelled at the power, strength, and rage
 * Of this poor creature in such slavery bound;

Tettered with worms of fear; forlorn with age;
 * Its blue wing-stumps stretched helpless on the ground;

While twilight faded into darkness deep, And he who watched it piped its pangs asleep.