High Falcon & Other Poems/The Lonely Host

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THE LONELY HOST
Cast on the turning wastes of windAre cords that none can touch or see,Are threads of subtle ore which bindThe grains of wandering air to peace.If any stretch a hand to findHow fast, how gold a stuff it be,He will but dizzy the poor mindWith bending from the steeps of peace;And though rest catch him in once more,He is bewildered there, like birdsThe storm beat to the door.
The day comes wildly up the east,Because the cup of vision broke,And those clear silver floods releasedGo ravaging the calm sky of night;And all who to that seeing wokeLook coldly on a common sight,As to outstare substantial stuff.The substance never is enoughWhen lids are drenched apart by light.Before the light shall fade againThey drag a shadow forth from itTo print upon the barren brain.
And though when lips are parched to tellWhat brooded on the lips too long, ​They quench them at a noisy well,The noise of waters is so sweetThey say, The heart has ease of this,And no more all its burden isThan the catch of an old song;And then to a lost catch repeatThe carking woe, the little bliss:Like things every mortal hears,But these tell them in a tongueBarbarous to your ears.
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