By A. L. Rowse (auth.)
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Stealing back along the path, soft and plumb with accumulated moss, I returned by way of the sunken garden, catching sight as I passed of a shadowy figure in an upper window moving forward to shut the shutters: the ancient ritual of the venerable old retainer, as slow, deliberate, formal as some devotee in the temple of a vanished religion. A. L. RowsE, A Cornish Childhood 32 18. A Plan-an-Gwary: Perran Round HARD by the edge of the sand-hills, and close beside the high road on the last rise before it dips to the coast, stands a turfed embankment surrounded by a shallow fosse.
0 rotten in the weed, 0 emigrants to hope, The islanders have graved you in their scanty sand, Girls mourned in Liibeck, in Livonia, By wrinkled hearts, and bloodless hand, And wind-drunk tombstones, ordered In our foreign land. Manured by the sea's red Bitter weed, by sorrow's grey-skied, endless hours, Pink lilies by the granite growFor foreign death such unfamiliar flowers. Yearn, too, by the tropic gardens, Under the ratas and the peeling gums, The pink breasts of the figurehead, Her blue eyes dry, Immobile, yearning for these helpless dead.
For there by Hector's brother And yet some thousand other He that had grief to mother Passed pale from Dante's sight; With one fast linked as fearless, Perchance, there only tearless; Iseult and Tristram, peerless And pedect queen and knight. A shrill-winged sound comes flying North, as of wild souls crying The cry of things undying, That know what life must be; Or as the old year's heart, stricken Too sore for hope to quicken By thoughts like thorns that thicken, Broke, breaking with the sea. A.