The Besieged
Against the edge-wood I stood five hours;
I stood against the rain-slivers,
against the pine-high clouds,
the edge weather beating among the mountains;
I remembered the song of David, far, like a distant river;
I tried to keep canopy in my own nature,
the flesh crawl and bone ache like a tent
held high over, or like the archangel falling forever.
I tried to make small motion of my sense,
the sense of a clotted stick on the grass
after worse weather. I stood like Daniel.
No one came near me though a fat old mother
shaded her eyes. My legs were afraid.
I remembered Anjou and the battle of the rood
and the heavy-thick armour and the hooded head,
and the horn in my mouth called
Spring! O you far lonesome creature,
you catch-as-catch-can, give us time,
give us the peace of your time beneath the roots
and leg-weary trunks of the trees,
and the ties of my time and yours,
and oh Spring and all good mother!
Give us the song of the March hare,
the webbed duck paddling the year,
the warmth of your hair and your hands near your head.
Against the edge-wood I stood five hours,
against the black March ferns;
the smell of the weeds was the rain mother;
I stood against the pine high clouds,
against the roots of her building heads;
through the edge weather hearing the distant river,
I stood like Roland against the dead.