TO THE ROCK THAT WILL BE A CORNERSTONE OF THE HOUSE
2009-08-26, 1:27 PM
Old garden of grayish and ochre lichen, How long a time since the brown people who have vanished from here Built fires beside you and nestled by you Out of the ranging sea-wind? A hundred years, two hundred, You have been dissevered from humanity And only known the stubble squirrels and the headland rabbits, Or the long-fetlocked plowhorses Breaking the hilltop in December, sea-gulls following, Screaming in the black furrow; no one Touched you with love, the gray hawk and the red hawk touched you Where now my hand lies. So I have brought you Wine and white milk and honey for the hundred years of famine And the hundred cold ages of sea-wind. I did not dream the taste of wine could bind with granite, Nor honey and milk please you; but sweetly They mingle down the storm-worn cracks among the mosses, Interpenetrating the silent Wing-prints of ancient weathers long at peace, and the older Scars of primal fire, and the stone Endurance that is waiting millions of years to carry A corner of the house, this also destined. Lend me the stone strength of the past and I will lend you The wings of the future, for I have them. How dear you will be to me when I too grow old, old comrade.