Thou shalt have an everlasting Monday and stand in the moon. The moon’s man stands in his shell, Bent under a bundle Of sticks. The light falls chalk and cold Upon our bedspread. His teeth are chattering among the leprous Peak and craters of those extinct volcanoes. He also against black frost Would pick sticks, would not rest Until hos own lit room outshone Sunday’s ghost of sun; Now works his hell of Mondays in the moon’s ball, Fireless, seven chill seas chained to his ankle. Clicca qui per la versione in Italiano!
Haunched like a faun, he hooed From grove of moon-glint and fen-frost Until all owls in the twigged forest Flapped black to look and brood On the call this man made. No sound but a drunken coot Lurching home along river bank. Stars hung water-sunk, so a rank Of double star-eyes lit Boughs where those owls sat. An arena of yellow eyes Watched the canging shape he cut, Saw hoof harden from foot, saw sprout Goat-horns. Marked how god rose And galloped woodward in that guise.
That grandiose colossus who Stood astride The envious assaults of sea (Essaying, wave by wave, Tide by tide, To undo him, perpetually), Has nothing on you, O my love, O my great idiot, who With one foot Caught (as it were) in the muck-trap Of skin and bone, Dithers with the other way out In preposterous provinces of the madcap Cloud-cuckoo, Agawp at the impeccable moon. Clicca qui per la versione in Italiano!
It was not a heart, beating. That muted boom, that clangor Far off, not blood in the ears Drumming up any fever To impose on the evening. The noise came from outside; A metal detonating Native, evidently, to These stilled suburbs: nobody Startled at it, though the sound Shook the ground with its pounding. It took root at my coming Till the thudding source, exposed, Confounded inept guesswork: Framed in windows of Main Street’s Silver factory, immense Hammers hoisted, wheels turning, Stalled, let fall their vertical Tonnage of metal and wood; Stunned the marrow. Men in white Undershirts circled, tending
Compelled by calamity’s magnet They loiter and stare as if the house Burnt-out weretheirs, or as if they thought Some scandal might any minute ooze From a smoke-choked closet into light; No deaths, no prodigious injuries Glut these hunters after an old meat, Blood-spoor of the austere tragedies. Mother Medea in a green smock Moves humbly as any housewife through Her ruined apartments, taking stock Of charred shoes, the sodden upholstery: Cheated of the pyre and the rack, The crowd sucks her last tear and turns away. Clicca qui per la versione in Italiano!