Page:Poetry, a magazine of verse, Volume 1 (October 1912-March 1913).djvu/45



NOVEMBER, 1912

EORGE BORROW in his Lavengro Tells us of a Welshman, who By some excess of mother-wit Framed a harp and played on it, Built a ship and sailed to sea, And steered it home to melody Of his own making. I, indeed, Might write for Everyman to read A thaumalogue of wonderment More wonderful, but rest content With cerebrating one I knew Who built his pipes, and played them, too: No more. Ah, played! Therein is all: The hounded thing, the hunter's call; The shudder, when the quarry's breath Is drowned in blood and stilled in death; The marriage dance, the pulsing vein,