Weird is the mist from the summit to base of it;
Sun of its heaven is wizened and grey;
Phantom of life is the light on the face of it --
Never is night on it, never is day!
Here is the shore without flower or bird on it;
Here is no litany sweet of the springs --
Only the haughty, harsh thunder is heard on it,
Only the storm, with the roar in its wings!
Shadow of moon is the moon in the sky of it --
Wan as the face of a wizard, and far!
Never there shines from the firmament high of it
Grace of the planet or glory of star.
All the year round, in the place of white days on it --
All the year round where there never is night --
Lies a great sinister, bitter, blind haze on it:
Growth that is neither of darkness nor light!
Wild is the cry of the sea in the caves by it --
Sea that is smitten by spears of the snow;
Desolate songs are the songs of the waves by it --
Down in the south, where the ships never go.
Storm from the Pole is the singer that sings to it
Hymns of the land at the planet's grey verge.
Pages:
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212