They Could Not Tell Me
They could not tell me who should be my lord,
But I could read from every word they said The common thought:
Perhaps that lord was dead,
And only a story now and a wandering word.
How could I follow a word or serve a fable,
They asked me. `Here are lords a-plenty.
Take Service with one, if only for your sake,
Yet better be your own master if you're able.' I would rather scour the roads, a masterless dog,
Than take such service, be a public fool,
Obstreperous or tongue-tied, a good rogue,
Than be with those, the clever and the dull,
Who say that lord is dead; when I hear Daily his dying whisper in my ear.(A poem from One Foot in Eden )
Edwin Muir
Other author posts
Scotlands Winter
Now the ice lays its smooth claws on the sill, The sun looks from the Helmed in his winter casket, And sweeps his arctic sword across the sky
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
Horses
Those lumbering horses in the steady plough, On the bare field - I wonder, why, just now, They seemed terrible, so wild and strange, Like magic power on the stony grange
Reading in Wartime
Boswell by my bed, Tolstoy on my table; Thought the world has bled For four and a half years, And wives' and mothers' tears Collected would be able To water a little field Untouched by anger and blood,