In Front of the Landscape

Plunging and labouring on in a tide of visions,
      Dolorous and dear,
Forward I pushed my way as amid waste waters
      Stretching around,
Through whose eddies there glimmered the customed landscape
      Yonder and near,

Blotted to feeble mist. And the coomb and the upland
Ancient chalk-pit, milestone, rills in the grass-flat
      Stroked by the light,
Seemed but a ghost-like gauze, and no substantial
      Meadow or mound.

What were the infinite spectacles bulking foremost
      Under my sight,
Hindering me to discern my paced advancement
      Lengthening to miles;
What were the re-creations killing the daytime
      As by the night?

O they were speechful faces, gazing insistent,
      Some as with smiles,
Some as with slow-born tears that brinily trundled
      Over the wrecked
Cheeks that were fair in their flush-time, ash now with anguish,
      Harrowed by wiles.

Yes, I could see them, feel them, hear them, address them --
      Halo-bedecked --
And, alas, onwards, shaken by fierce unreason,
      Rigid in hate,
Smitten by years-long wryness born of misprision,
      Dreaded, suspect.

Then there would breast me shining sights, sweet seasons
      Further in date;
Instruments of strings with the tenderest passion
      Vibrant, beside
Lamps long extinguished, robes, cheeks, eyes with the earth's crust
      Now corporate.

Also there rose a headland of hoary aspect
      Gnawed by the tide,
Frilled by the nimb of the morning as two friends stood there
      Guilelessly glad --
Wherefore they knew not - touched by the fringe of an ecstasy
      Scantly descried.

Later images too did the day unfurl me,
      Shadowed and sad,
Clay cadavers of those who had shared in the dramas,
      Laid now at ease,
Passions all spent, chiefest the one of the broad brow

So did beset me scenes miscalled of the bygone,
      Over the leaze,
Past the clump, and down to where lay the beheld ones;
      -- Yea, as the rhyme
Sung by the sea-swell, so in their pleading dumbness
      Captured me these.

For, their lost revisiting manifestations
      In their own time
Much had I slighted, caring not for their purport,
      Seeing behind
Things more coveted, reckoned the better worth calling
      Sweet, sad, sublime.

Thus do they now show hourly before the intenser
      Stare of the mind
As they were ghosts avenging their slights by my bypast
      Body-borne eyes,
Show, too, with fuller translation than rested upon them
      As living kind.

Hence wag the tongues of the passing people, saying
      In their surmise,
'Ah -- whose is this dull form that perambulates, seeing nought
      Round him that looms
Whithersoever his footsteps turn in his farings,
      Save a few tombs?'