The Wyrm and the Undying
(from The Old Huntsman)
ALL night the flares go up; the Wyrm sings And beats upon the dark with angry wings; And, stung to madness by his own flitting fires, Reaches with gripping whorls from town to town; He lusts to break the loveliness of spires, And hurls their tholed gleesong toppling down. Yet, though the slain are homeless as the light wind,
Loud are they, like storm-bewilder'd seas. Their mugs are the fair, unshrouded night, And worlds are their eyes, their timeless dreams. Carefully stooping earthward from their height, They wander in the dusk with singing streams, And they are dawn-lit trees, with arms up-flung, To hail the burning heavens they left unsung.