This Hill of Stones

I

Not in this ground, not on this hill of stones

Shall the root be ever at rest -

The wild pear that breaks from the flinty slope

Is sharp to the questing tongue.

Thorn-apple, writhing and insidiously stinging,

Is of no tangible worth, is of no earthly good,

Save that its slim stems cover the bitter ground.

There is no sweetness here,

Neither of soil nor of measurable growth ;

No wonder breaks from the high-ground in lance-points of

color.

Lest the heart sink leadenly and the mind grow bitter

On its hill of stones

The wide sky and the high air burgeon with promise,

Naming the uncountable winds and the horizon's curve.

Monotones of dwarf pine and the straggle of blackthorn

Shadow the pure blue granite.

There is no flurry here, neither of growth nor of color ;

Only the groping root and the incessant struggle for freedom ;

Matching the stone and the white, clear presence of wonder -

An invisible growth of soul.

u

Lay him to sleep and the blackthorn above him

spreading its sinuous tendrils shall be sweet ;

More lovely and less painful now in his sight

Is its conceded right.

He that has too long stayed awake in the long dark

tracing the thorn's formidable line

Is at rest, is too utterly tired to rise -

Cover his hollow eyes.

Deeply now, let the gaunt face and the hard hands

Be forever at rest.

It is best.

Better that he should lie in this certain place

Than waken a careworn face

To this incessant toil . . .

The granite of him shall lie

Under a watchful sky,

And the strange winds passing by

Finger the weaving thorn,

The blighted, untended corn.