Tennyson
I heard-his voice once, scratched, But underneath like Maud in the high hall garden; And saw him, pacing his paved walks Afraid and alone, examining the grass Behind the lens of an anxious eye, Or stooping gently to look at a shell, Or a frond, or the colour of a bud-tip And losing himself in that. That he knew, Could clasp, could count, could latch His befuddled mind that rarely stirred To the age's purposes. If it were all like this!
Or sometimes he'd see a violet sweep Of sea and island, and lie like a child Crying.on warm sand, while waves And clammy undergrowth enfolded him From the racket of his day. The dead-end Of the tropic bower, while nearer crept The lion of the mob, its fangs dripping with reason, As he focused on the still leaf At his eyes, watched it slowly curl until
Black and rotten, its veins protruding.
It joined the warm corruption of the earth.
JOIIN DANIEL
t It is good news to hear since the above was writ- ten that the publishers are soon to bring out a further, larger volume of plates, some in colour.
Previous page
