Eggplant.place

273d

“No Extra Words“ – The Scottish Poet Norman MacCaig (1910–1996)
16 Dec, free online

Anette Degott looks at the life & work of Norman MacCaig
via Scotland HUB at Johannes Gutenberg Universität Mainz

@litstudies

https://www.scotland.uni-mainz.de/reading-scotland/

#Scottish #literature #poetry #20thcentury #NormanMacCaig

Reading Scotland with Anette Degott

“No Extra Words“ – The Scottish Poet Norman MacCaig (1910–1996)

Tuesday, 16th December 2025
6.00–7.30 pm (German time) on MS Teams

www.scotland.uni-mainz.de

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286d

Mirror, mirror on the wall
show me in succession all
my faces, that I may view
and choose which I would like as true…

—“Through the Looking Glass”, by Veronica Forrest-Thomson (1947–1975) – born #OTD, 28 Nov

published in COLLECTED POEMS (Shearsman Books, 2008)

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https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/143680/through-the-looking-glass

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #20thcentury #WomenWriters #postmodern

Through the Looking Glass
by Veronica Forrest-Thomson

Mirror, mirror on the wall
show me in succession all
my faces, that I may view
and choose which I would like as true.

Teach me skill to disguise
what’s not pleasing to the eyes,
with faith, that life obeys the rules,
in man or God or football pools.

Always keep me well content
to decorate attitude and event
so that somehow behind the scene
I may believe my actions mean;

that one can exercise control
in playing out a chosen role;
rub clouded glass and then,
at will, write self on it again.

But if, in some unlucky glance,
I should glimpse naked circumstance
in all its nowhere-going-to,
may you crack before I do.

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269d

jollymerry
hollyberry
jollyberry
merryholly
happyjolly
jollyjelly
jellybelly
bellymerry
hollyheppy
jollyMolly
marryJerry
merryHarry
hoppyBarry
heppyJarry
bobbyheppy
berryjorry…

—Edwin Morgan, “The Computer’s First Christmas Card”
first published in THE SECOND LIFE (Edinburgh University Press, 1968)

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #concretepoetry #20thcentury #EdwinMorgan #Christmas #ChristmasCard #computer

(written in bright green text, in a monospaced font on a black background, to emulate an old CRT computer monitor)

The Computer's First Christmas Card
by Edwin Morgan

jollymerry
hollyberry
jollyberry
merryholly
happyjolly
jollyjelly
jellybelly
bellymerry
hollyheppy
jollyMolly
marryJerry
merryHarry
hoppyBarry
heppyJarry
bobbyheppy
berryjorry
jorryjolly
moppyjelly
Mollymerry
Jerryjolly
bellyboppy
jorryhoppy
hollymoppy
Barrymerry
Jarryhappy
happyboppy
boppyjolly
jollymerry
merrymerry
merrymerry
merryChris
ammerryasa
Chrismerry
asMERRYCHR
YSANTHEMUM

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286d

Oot behind a lorry,
Peyin nae heed,
Ablow a doubledecker,
A poor wean deid…

—James Copeland (1918–2002), “Black Friday”

Actor & writer James Gordon Copeland’s much anthologised poem “Black Friday” packs tragedy, compassion, & a sense of close community into nine short verses

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #20thcentury #Glasgow #Scots #Scotslanguage

Black Friday
James Copeland

Oot behind a lorry,
Peyin nae heed,
Ablow a doubledecker,
A poor wean deid.

Perra worn sannies,
Wee durrty knees,
Heh, erra polis,
Stand back please!

Lookit the conductriss.
Face as white as chalk,
Heh, see the driver but
Cannae even talk.

Anyone a witness?
Na, we niver saw.
Glad ah’m no the polis
Goin tae tell its maw.

Weemen windae-hingin
Herts in their mooth,
It’s no oor close, Lizzie
Oh Gawdstrewth!

Screams on the landin,
Twa closes doon,
It’s no wee Hughie!
Poor Nellie Broon.

Phone up the shipyard.
Oh, what a shame!
Yes, we'll inform him,
Please repeat the name.

See Big Hughie,
Jokin wi the squad,
Better knock off, Heug,
Oh dear God.

Whit – no his laddie?
Aw, bloody hell!
D’ye see Hughie’s face but,
He’s just a boy himsel.

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286d

“From Scotland to the World”: The Poetry of Hope Mirrlees, Helen Adam, Muriel Spark, & Veronica Forrest-Thomson
—Dorothy McMillan, HUMANITIES 8/4, 2019

Dorothy McMillan discusses four 20th-century women writers “poised… between Scotland and Modernism”

@litstudies

https://www.mdpi.com/2076-0787/8/4/184

#Scottish #literature #poetry #20thcentury #womenwriters #modernism

Abstract

The four poets that provide the material for this chapter did not know each other and they probably did not know each other’s work. However, they had important formative experiences in common: They were all educated in Scotland and they all left Scotland after that early education. Yet, they all retained special, although different, ties to that country, to its history, and its writing. They were all “modern” in their poetry, sometimes bizarrely so: Of each of them it could be said, “There was no one like her.” This strangeness they also share, as they share a willingness, even desire, to shock, a muddling of contemporary and archaic, of real and legendary. Veronica Forrest-Thomson’s “Hold on to your seat-belt Persephone” is an indicative phrase. I aim to show that these serially inimitable modern writers have complicated and intertwined Scottish and international connections.

Keywords: Scotland; ballads; kaleidoscope; Charles Bernstein; Edwin Morgan

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287d

So on the bus through late November running
by yellow lights tormented, darkness falling,
the two girls sang for miles and miles together…

—Iain Crichton Smith, “Two Girls Singing”
Published in DEER ON THE HIGH HILLS, ed. by John Greening (Carcanet, 2021)

https://www.carcanet.co.uk/9781800170940/deer-on-the-high-hills/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #20thcentury #November

Two Girls Singing
by Iain Crichton Smith

It neither was the words nor yet the tune.
Any tune would have done and any words.
Any listener or no listener at all.

As nightingales in rocks or a child crooning
in its own world of strange awakening
or larks for no reason but themselves.

So on the bus through late November running
by yellow lights tormented, darkness falling,
the two girls sang for miles and miles together

and it wasn’t the words or tune. It was the singing.
It was the human sweetness in that yellow,
the unpredicted voices of our kind.

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269d

The Many Primes of Muriel Spark
First broadcast in 2018. Available on BBC iPlayer until 27 December.

Kirsty Wark celebrates the life and work of Dame Muriel Spark, author of The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie and one of the twentieth century’s most enigmatic cultural figures.

https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b09qlx14

#Scottish #literature #20thcentury #womenwriters #MurielSpark

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284d

The Little White Rose
(To John Gawsworth)

The rose of all the world is not for me.
I want for my part
Only the little white rose of Scotland
That smells sharp and sweet—and breaks the heart.

—Hugh MacDiarmid, “The Little White Rose”

A poem for St Andrew’s Day 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/46800/the-little-white-rose

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #20thcentury #Scotland #HughMacDiarmid #StAndrewsDay

A small spray of white Scottish roses, some open, some just beginning to bud. Prickly stems bearing neat, fern-like, dark green foliage carry cupped, single, creamy-white flowers with pale yellow centres.

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282d

“Helen Adam marched through her life to the beat of her own drum”
—Kristin Prevallet

Helen Adam (1909–1993) – fey child prodigy (published by Faber & Faber at 14) & daughter of the manse; bardic matriarch of the San Francisco Beats; Worm Queen – was born #OTD, 2 Dec.

A 🎂🧵

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https://caesuramag.org/posts/kristin-prevallet-poems-by-helen-adam

#Scottish #literature #20thcentury #womenwriters #gothic #supernatural #ballads #SanFrancisco #BeatPoets #poetry

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268d

goodk kkkkk unjam ingwe nches lass? start again goodk
lassw enche sking start again kings tart! again sorry…

—Edwin Morgan, “The Computer’s Second Christmas Card”
published in COLLECTED POEMS (Carcanet, 1990)

https://www.carcanet.co.uk/9781857541885/collected-poems/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #concretepoetry #20thcentury #computing #EdwinMorgan

(written in bright green text, in a monospaced font on a black background, to emulate an old CRT computer monitor; the text is divided up into blocks of five letters each)

The Computer's Second Christmas Card
by Edwin Morgan

goodk kkkkk unjam ingwe nches lass? start again goodk
lassw enche sking start again kings tart! again sorry
goodk ingwe ncesl ooked outas thef? unmix asloo kedou
tonth effff rewri tenow goodk ingwe ncesl asloo kedou
tonth effff fffff unjam feast ofsai ntste venst efanc
utsai ntrew ritef easto fstep toeso rryan dsons orry!
start again good? yesgo odkin gwenc eslas looke dout?
doubt wrong track start again goodk ingwe ncesl asloo
kedou tonth efeas tofst ephph phphp hphph unjam phphp
repea tunja mhphp scrub carol hphph repea tscru bcaro
lstop subst itute track merry chris tmasa ndgoo dnewy
earin 1699? check digit banks orryi n1966 endme ssage

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266d

Now the ice lays its smooth claws on the sill,
The sun looks from the hill
Helmed in his winter casket,
And sweeps his arctic sword across the sky…

—Edwin Muir, “Scotland’s Winter”
from ONE FOOT IN EDEN (Faber, 1956)

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #20thcentury #EdwinMuir #winter

Scotland’s Winter
by Edwin Muir

Now the ice lays its smooth claws on the sill,
The sun looks from the hill
Helmed in his winter casket,
And sweeps his arctic sword across the sky.
The water at the mill
Sounds more hoarse and dull.
The miller’s daughter walking by
With frozen fingers soldered to her basket
Seems to be knocking
Upon a hundred leagues of floor
With her light heels, and mocking
Percy and Douglas dead,
And Bruce on his burial bed,
Where he lies white as may
With wars and leprosy,
And all the kings before
This land was kingless,
And all the singers before
This land was songless,
This land that with its dead and living waits the Judgment Day.
But they, the powerless dead,
Listening can hear no more
Than a hard tapping on the sounding floor
A little overhead
Of common heels that do not know
Whence they come or where they go
And are content
With their poor frozen life and shallow banishment.

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267d

Some December midnight
Christ, lord, lie warm in our byre.
Here are stars, an ox, poverty enough.

—George Mackay Brown, “A Child’s Calendar”
published in FISHERMEN WITH PLOUGHS (Hogarth Press 1971)

#Scottish #literature #20thcentury #Christmas #poem #poetry #Orkney

A Child's Calendar
George Mackay Brown

No visitors in January.
A snowman smokes a cold pipe in the yard.

They stand about like ancient women,
The February hills.
They have seen many a coming and going, the hills.

In March Moorfea is littered
With knock-kneed lambs.

Daffodils at the door in April,
Three shawled Marys.
A lark splurges in galilees of sky.

And in May
A russet stallion shoulders the hill apart.
The mares tremble.

The June bee
Bumps in the pane with a heavy bag of plunder.

Strangers swarm in July
With cameras, binoculars, bird books.

He thumped the crag in August,
A blind blue whale.

September crofts get wrecked in blond surges.
They struggle, the harvesters.
They drag loaf and ale-kirn into winter.

In October the fishmonger
Argues, pleads, threatens at the shore.

Nothing in November
But tinkers at the door, keening, with cans.

Some December midnight
Christ, lord, lie warm in our byre.
Here are stars, an ox, poverty enough.

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262d

Anybody know anything about a Nicolletti trial in May of 1915? Probably took place in #NewYork, possibly #NYC. It was a big enough deal that they took a formal photo of the jury, which I have in my possession. Would love to know more.

#UShistory #trials #Early20thCentury #20thCentury

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264d

“He looks much older than he is, for it is not quite twenty years ago that Johnnie founded the Society for the Abolition of Christmas”

—Muriel Spark, “The Leaf-Sweeper”
in THE COMPLETE SHORT STORIES, published by @canongatebooks

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https://canongate.co.uk/books/1371-the-complete-short-stories/

#Scottish #literature #MurielSpark #Christmas #shortstory #shortstory #womenwriters #20thcentury

THE LEAF-SWEEPER

Behind the town hall there is a wooded parkland which, towards the end of November, begins to draw a thin blue cloud right into itself; and as a rule the park floats in this haze until mid-February. I pass every day, and see Johnnie Geddes in the heart of this mist, sweeping up the leaves. Now and again he stops, and jerking his long head erect, looks indignantly at the pile of leaves, as if it ought not to be there; then he sweeps on. This business of leaf-sweeping he learnt during the years he spent in the asylum; it was the job they always gave him to do; and when he was discharged the town council gave him the leaves to sweep. But the indignant movement of the head comes naturally to him, for this has been one of his habits since he was the most promising and buoyant and vociferous graduate of his year. He looks much older than he is, for it is not quite twenty years ago that Johnnie founded the Society for the Abolition of Christmas.

Johnnie was living with his aunt then. I was at school, and in the Christmas holidays Miss Geddes gave me her nephew's pamphlet, How to Grow Rich at Christmas. It sounded very likely, but it turned out that you grow rich at Christmas by doing away […]

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264d

Anette Degott’s talk ‘“No Extra Words” – The Scottish Poet Norman MacCaig (1910–1996)’, recorded on 16 December

@litstudies

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m3OGDm8x6ak

#Scottish #literature #poetry #NormanMacCaig #20thcentury

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260d

📚 1929 by: Andrew Ross Sorkin

In 1929, the world watched in shock as the unstoppable Wall Street bull market went into a freefall, wiping out fortunes and igniting a depression that would reshape a generation. But behind the flashing ticker tapes and panicked traders, another drama unfolded—one of visionaries and fraudsters, titans and dreamers, e...

https://bookblabla.com/book/1929

@bookstodon

#books #reading #libraries #businesseconomics #unitedstates #20thcentury

In 1929, the world watched in shock as the unstoppable Wall Street bull market went into a freefall, wiping out fortunes and igniting a depression that would reshape a generation. But behind the flashing ticker tapes and panicked traders, another drama unfolded—one of visionaries and fraudsters, titans and dreamers, euphoria and ruin.

With unparalleled access to historical records and newly uncovered documents, New York Times bestselling author Andrew Ross Sorkin takes readers inside the chaos of the crash, behind the scenes of a raging battle between Wall Street and Washington and the larger-than-life characters whose ambition and naïveté in an endless boom led to disaster. The dizzying highs and brutal lows of this era eerily mirror today’s world—where markets soar, political tensions mount, and the fight over financial influence plays out once again.

This is not just a story about money. 1929 is a tale of power, psychology, and the seductive illusion that this time is different. It's about disregarded alarm bells, financiers who fell from grace, and skeptics who saw the crash coming—only to be dismissed until it was too late.

Hailed as a landmark book, Too Big to Fail reimagined how financial crises are told. Now, with 1929, Sorkin delivers an immersive, electrifying account of the most pivotal market collapse of all time—with lessons that remain as urgent as ever. More than just a history, 1929 is a crucial blueprint for understanding the cycles of sp

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1y

Isobel Wylie Hutchison (1889–1982)—author, poet, film-maker, botanist, #arctic explorer—was born #OTD, 30 May. A 🎂 🧵

WalkHighlands shares an extract from PEAK BEYOND PEAK, describing how she tackled the Corrieyairack Pass between the #Cairngorms & Loch Ness

1/4

https://www.walkhighlands.co.uk/news/peak-beyond-peak-the-unpublished-scottish-journeys-of-isobel-wylie-hutchison/

#Scottish #literature #20thcentury #womenwriters #hillwalking #mountaineering

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When you were people
We could have loved you,
Found out your names
And brought you presents…

—“Poem for Innocent Victims of War” by AC Jacobs (1937–1994) – born #OTD, 30 May

Published in NAMELESS COUNTRY: Selected Poems (Carcanet, 2018)

A 🎂 🧵

1/6

https://www.carcanet.co.uk/9781784106751/nameless-country/

#Scottish #literature #poetry #Jewish #diaspora #20thcentury #warpoetry

Poem for Innocent Victims of War
A. C. Jacobs

You did not die for me
Or love or desperation.
No-one chipped your names
On plaques on peaceful blocks of stone.
You are just the useless dead
Who mock our daily sin of passion,
Climb through our heads in cold, slow silence.

When you were people
We could have loved you,
Found out your names
And brought you presents.
We could have walked around with your response.

Or even if you chose to die
We might have understood your longing
And written down your utmost fear.

Now, though, you have got beyond our feelings,
And we can never almost follow
To learn your last shared and perfect secret.

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242d

The laverock rises owe blin waas
At ane wi the great North wun
At the heid o hecht…

—“The Heid o Hecht” by Duncan Glen, born #OTD, 11 Jan, 1933. Starting out as an apprentice printer, he became a poet, designer, editor, publisher, & academic

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https://asls.org.uk/publications/books/volumes/a-kist-o-skinlan-things/

#Scotish #literature #poem #poetry #20thcentury #Scots #Scotslanguage

Duncan Glen
The Heid o Hecht

The laverock rises owe blin waas
At ane wi the great North wun
At the heid o hecht. Here The Stuarts huntit the reid deer
And I look doun at that sma grey toun
Wi its fremmit Freench-like Palace
Whaur aince kings walkt wi thochts
O the saft wuns o the Sooth;

Saft wuns that cam lown north
Bringin the bricht bird o simmer
That has but a glisk o that cauld yin
Wha moves baith gress and pine. There
By toom waas whaur aince kings sat
Wi braw sudroun tapestries hidin
The grey stane that cam straucht
Frae the quarries o this hill.

Stanes and laverock risin heich
In the cauld wun that kens nae
Swallow, gouk, or that simmer swarm
O flees. And the great stanes are bare.
Nae claith or burnin wud that can
Gie and tak frae that cauld hunter oot
On the hill wi the laverock wha passes
Owre aw at the heid o hecht.

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242d

Orcadian author Ann Scott-Moncrieff (1914–1943) was born #OTD, 11 January. Lesley Findlay, her daughter, talks about Ann’s life in Orkney, her writing, & her children’s stories – recently republished by Scotland Street Press

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https://www.scotlandstreetpress.com/journal/who-was-ann-scott-moncrieff

#Scottish #literature #20thCentury #Orkney #WomenWriters #ChildrensLiterature #kidlit

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239d

The burn was big wi’ spate,
An’ there cam’ tum’lin doon
Tapsalteerie the half o’ a gate,
Wi’ an auld fish-hake an’ a great muckle skate,
An’ a lum hat wantin’ the croon!

—David Rorie, “The Lum Hat Wantin’ the Croon”

As things start to thaw in the north-east, mind how ye go…

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #song #20thcentury #humour #Scots #Scotslanguage

The Lum Hat Wantin’ the Croon
Dr David Rorie

The burn was big wi’ spate,
An’ there cam’ tum’lin doon
Tapsalteerie the half o’ a gate,
Wi’ an auld fish-hake an’ a great muckle skate,
An’ a lum hat wantin’ the croon!

The auld wife stude on the bank
As they gaed swirlin’ roun’,
She took a gude look an’ syne says she:
“There’s food an’ there’s firin’ gaun to the sea,
An’ a lum hat wantin’ the croon!”

Sae she gruppit the branch o’ a saugh,
An’ she kickit aff ane o’ her shoon,
An’ she stuck oot her fit – but it caught in the gate,
An’ awa’ she went wi’ the great muckle skate,
An’ the lum hat wantin’ the croon!

She floatit fu’ mony a mile,
Past cottage an’ village an’ toon,
She’d an awfu’ time astride o’ the gate,
Though it seemed to gree fine wi’ the great muckle skate,
An’ the lum hat wantin’ the croon!

A fisher was walkin’ the deck,
By the licht o’ his pipe an’ the mune,
When he sees an auld body astride o’ a gate,
Come bobbin’ alang in the waves wi’ a skate,
An’ a lum hat wantin’ the croon!

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“There’s a man overboard!” cries he,
“Ye leear!” says she, “I’ll droon!
A man on a boord! It’s a wife on a gate,
It’s auld Mistress Mackintosh here wi’ a skate,
An’ a lum hat wantin’ the croon!”

Was she nippit to death at the Pole?
Has India bakit her broon?
I canna tell that, but whatever her fate,
I’ll wager ye’ll find it was shared by a skate,
An’ a lum hat wantin’ the croon!

There’s a moral attached to my sang,
On greed ye should aye gie a froon,
When ye think o’ the wife that was lost for a gate,
An auld fish-hake an’ a great muckle skate,
An’ a lum hat wantin’ a croon!

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236d

Straight Outta Compton (Mackenzie)

Edward Compton Mackenzie (1883–1972) was born #OTD, 17 Jan. Mainly remembered today for his 1947 comedy WHISKY GALORE, he wrote more than 100 books & influenced writers such as F Scott Fitzgerald, George Orwell, & Cyril Connolly

A 🎂🧵

1/4

https://unherd.com/2022/11/the-forgotten-genius-of-compton-mackenzie/

#Scottish #literature #20thcentury #modernism #ComptonMackenzie #FScottFitzgerald #GeorgeOrwell #CyrilConnolly

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145d

📚 The Cure for Drowning by: Loghan Paylor

Born Kathleen to an immigrant Irish farming family in southern Ontario, Kit McNair has been a troublesome changeling since, at ten, they fell through the river ice and drowned—only to be nursed back to life by their mother's Celtic magic. A daredevil in boy's clothes, Kit chafes...

https://bookblabla.com/book/the-cure-for-drowning

@bookstodon

#books #reading #libraries #fiction #lgbtq #generalfiction #historical #20thcentury

Born Kathleen to an immigrant Irish farming family in southern Ontario, Kit McNair has been a troublesome changeling since, at ten, they fell through the river ice and drowned—only to be nursed back to life by their mother's Celtic magic. A daredevil in boy's clothes, Kit chafes at every aspect of a farmgirl's life, driving that same mother to distraction with worry about where Kit will ever fit in. When Rebekah Kromer, an elegant German-Canadian doctor's daughter, moves to town with her parents in April 1939, Rebekah has no doubt as to who 19-year-old Kit is. Soon she and Kit, and Kit's older brother, Landon, are drawn tight in a love triangle that will tear them and their families apart, and send each of them off on a separate path to war.

Landon signs up for the Navy. Kit, now known as Christopher, joins the Royal Air Force, becoming a bomber navigator relied on for his luck and courage. Rebekah serves with naval intelligence in Halifax, until one more collision with Landon changes the course of her life and draws her back to the McNair farm—a place where she'd once known love. Fallen on even harder times, the McNairs welcome all the help she is able to give, and she believes she has found peace at last. Until, with the war over, Kit and Landon return home.

Told in the vivid, unforgettable voices of Kit and Rebekah, The Cure for Drowning is a powerfully engrossing novel that imagines a history that is truer than true.

WINNER OF CANADA READS 2026
LONGLISTED FO

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234d

George MacBeth (1932–1992) was born #OTD, 19 Jan

“MacBeth’s language is beautifully melodic: the stanzas unfold like operatic arias, becoming more florid & complex in thought as the poem develops…”

—Carol Rumens on MacBeth’s “The God of Love”

1/2

https://www.theguardian.com/books/booksblog/2010/jun/07/poem-week-god-love-macbeth

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #20thcentury #naturepoetry #naturewriting

The poem is too long for ALT text – it can be read online via the shared link:

https://www.theguardian.com/books/booksblog/2010/jun/07/poem-week-god-love-macbeth

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233d

I saw the dead upon St Laurence Wake
Sailing in beautiful Brimvald. They were young,
Younger than death and life, with a sweet tongue
I have heard in my blood before…

—“The Vikings”, by Olive Fraser (1909–1977) – born #OTD, 20 Jan, & a poet whose work was sadly neglected in her lifetime. A 🎂 🧵

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#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #20thcentury #womenwriters #OliveFraser #Vikings

Olive Fraser
1909-77

THE VIKINGS

King Haro's navy met on St Laurence Wake in 1263 at Ronaldsvo under the leadership of his great ship Brimvald

I saw the dead upon St Laurence Wake
Sailing in beautiful Brimvald. They were young,
Younger than death and life, with a sweet tongue
I have heard in my blood before,
Dreaming it was the wild gannets that make
Their comment upon Sulna-stapa shore.
I creid upon the dead, 'Why is your face
So beautiful in the regretless place?

'Surely among the dead there is no will
For dragon-necks of gold and for straight sails,
And Brimvald with the silver bitterns' tails
Is quiet under dark skerries now.'
'O we are loved among the living still,
We are forgiven among the dead. We plough
In the old narrows of the spirit. We
Have woven our wealth into your mystery.'

And I remembered words that I had heard
And never heard. And vessels that I knew
And thought were visions. The mute swans that flew
Over grey islands were like these
And yet were nothing. Once at Herlesferd
I saw a ship whose path on the green seas
Made joy to brindled sea-birds, and my breath
Was dangerous and scant, bitter like death.

'O if you died upon St Laurence Wake
Why are you beautiful and young,' I cried
'Like dreams of you I saw on a great tide
Lovelier and more young than I?
Even when I heard the wild white eagles take
Over the earth with their cruel minstrelsy
You were more light than I have ever been.'
They said, 'We are your Soul that you have seen.'

ALT

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