In Love for Long
I've been in love for
With what I cannot
And will contrive a
For the
That has no mould or shape,
From which there's no escape,
It's not even a name,
Yet is all constancy;
Tried or untried the same,
It cannot part from me;
A breath yet as
As the established hill.
It is not any thing,
And yet all being is;
Being, being, being,
Its burden and its bliss.
How can I ever
What it is I love?
This happy happy
Is seiged with crying sorrows,
Crushed beneath and
Between todays and morrows;
A little
Held in the world's vice.
And there it is
As careless as a child,
And in
Flourishes sweet and wild:
In wrong, beyond
All the world's day long.
This love a moment knownfor what I do not
And in a moment
Is like the happy
That keeps its perfect
Between the tiger's
And vindicates its his collection,
The Voyage(1946)
Edwin Muir
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The Animals
They do not live in the world, Are not in time and space From birth to death hurled No word do they have, not one To plant a foot upon, Were never in any place
The Fathers
Our fathers all were poor, Poorer our fathers' fathers; Beyond, we dare not look We, the sons, keep
The Killing
That was the day they killed the Son of On a squat hill-top by Jerusalem Zion was bare, her children from their Sucked by the dream of
The Incarnate One
The windless northern surge, the sea-gull's scream, And Calvin's kirk crowning the barren brae I think of Giotto the Tuscan shepherd's dream, Christ, man and creature in their inner day
