Louis Untermeyer, ed. (1885–1977). Modern British Poetry. 1920.
Lord Dunsany18781957Songs from an Evil Wood
T
They do not rage in the sky;
I look from the evil wood
And find myself wondering why.
And grapple star against star,
Seeking for blood in the wood
As all things round me are?
Or flash like the deeps of the wood;
But they shine softly on
In their sacred solitude.
Silence from us has flown,
She whom we loved of old
And know it now she is gone.
Though for one second only?
She whom we loved is gone
And the whole world is lonely.
Sometimes, tramping from far
Through the weird and flickering light
Made by an earthly star.
And the dwarf with rage in his breath,
And the elder giants from far,
They are all the children of Death.
And are breaking the hills with their brood,—
And the birds are all asleep
Even in Plug Street Wood!
Somewhere lost in the haze
The sun goes down in the cold,
And birds in this evil wood
Chirrup home as of old;
On the high twigs frozen and thin.
There is no more noise of them now,
And the long night sets in.
That I have seen in the wood
I marvel most at the birds
And their wonderful quietude.
All day the tops of the hill,
Sometimes he rests at night,
Oftener he beats them still.
Raps with repeated rage
All night in the valley below
On the wooden walls of his cage.
I met with Death in his country,
With his scythe and his hollow eye,
Walking the roads of Belgium.
I looked and he passed me by.
In the wood of the evil name,
I shall not now lie with the heroes,
I shall not share their fame;
A name in the lands of the Free,
Since I looked on Death in Flanders
And he did not look at me.