Читать книгу Poems, and The Spring of Joy - Mary Webb - Страница 31

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Virocon—Virocon—

Still the ancient name rings on

And brings, in the untrampled wheat,

The tumult of a thousand feet.

Where trumpets rang and men marched by,

None passes but the dragon-fly.

Athwart the grassy town, forlorn,

The lone dor-beetle blows his horn.

The poppy standards droop and fall

Above one rent and mournful wall:

In every sunset-flame it burns,

Yet towers unscathed when day returns.

And still the breaking seas of grain

Flow havenless across the plain:

The years wash on, their spindrift leaps

Where the old city, dreaming, sleeps.

Grief lingers here, like mists that lie

Across the dawns of ripe July;

On capital and corridor

The pathos of the conqueror.

The pillars stand, with alien grace,

In churches of a younger race;

The chiselled column, black and rough,

Becomes a roadside cattle-trough:

The skulls of men who, right or wrong,

Still wore the splendour of the strong,

Are shepherds’ lanterns now, and shield

Their candles in the lambing field.

But when, through evening’s open door,

Two lovers tread the broken floor,

And the wild-apple petals fall

Round passion’s scarlet festival;

When cuckoos call from the green gloom

Where dark, shelving forests loom;

When foxes bark beside the gate,

And the grey badger seeks his mate—

There haunts within them secretly

One that lives while empires die,

A shrineless god whose songs abide

Forever in the countryside.