I sat at a high window till sleep despaired of me
And all the anger in this small room
Shook me for what I am, and measured out a tomb
For the exact inadequacy that I shall be.
I sat at my high window shrunkenly,
Too tiny for despair, too bored for anger,
Too numbed by the cold night of my mind
To find
Remedy for this languor.
I sat at my high window and the stars were the same
Bright villainous stones as the stars yesterday.
Catherine wheels, said I, are stronger than the Lion,
Lion immature and tame,
And Roman Candles louder, brighter than Orion,
And more beautiful of name.
Even the streets are bent and grey,
With shallow lamps spattering
The thirsty stone beneath,
Guttering and cowed and out of breath,
Building an obvious analogy of Life and Death.
I sat at my high window with a ray for a wreath
And a wind for a shroud.
Over the wall the houses pressed and scattered,
Only the cold bricks were awake;
There was no child that walked, no dog pattered,
There was no scarlet omnibus to shake
The childish light that trembles at my window.
Over the wall, raindrops like sparrows chattered,
And leaped and clattered in the lonely light
That gutters low and stirs to make
A gilt stem for the bright
And shapeless visions of wet streets at night.
I sat at my high window and the houses came
And went in sullen streets, broke into wall and square,
House, light and star, night, soundless path and stair,
Wall and stair, flat houses, ever the same,
And I the same with all that ever was
At this high window, all the truths half-taken,
Thirsts half-appeased, fat tears
Half-shaken
By laughter half-sincere.
Suddenly by the window fell a spear
Of thin metallic sound,
That pricked and scraped against me and made stir
The cumbrous plague that battened all about . . .
A spear came glittering to wound
This life that fumbled half in hand with death,
To put
A stripping, noisy tooth in the usual fur
That hid a tender skin of the world beneath.
Over the wall of red-brown bricks,
Over the road, over the houses, over the road,
Over a thousand houses and a poor scrap of trees,
Came a far siren moving down the oil-lit quays,
Where Thames-water sticks
Thrown up with petrol and tar, to the roped stone everywhere. . .
Came a brittle goad
To prick the sulky anger of my watching there.
My thought rode out to greet
This cavalier intruder,
As the sound dragged and drifted, and cried thinly down the
street,
As it meekly fell and bravely flowed I leaned,
And spread out from my window, a figurehead of flesh and silk
Set on a brown brick ship that hears the waves when birds pipe
Till it turns, as a needle, to the sea.
My thought rode out to meet
So strong an intruder,
And played with the dragging drifting sound of the siren
doubtfully.
Suppose some blackened band came sweeping up the river,
Raking the long stretches, the low islands, the stone ridges,
Suppose a dun ship skulked like an otter in the sedges,
Or rode superbly through the hundred bridges
That lace the town together. I watched for the fire
On the dark quay-side, I listened for the wide
Gossip of gun and gun . . . the narrow crack
And snap of windows blinded in a burning. Half 1 saw a black
Tousle of scorched men against the light, merry fire,
Saw the lovely flames that scraped the city dry,
As hornpipe pirates came to land beside the hundred bridges.
And it was quiet, quiet, so quiet again.
Suppose the black night called, and the city answering,
Crept silent to eager ships and furrowed out to find
A clouded rumour of the North, a grave whispered thing;
Or drove by labour with sick sails pining for a wind,
Under the alder banks, by humped root and gritty shallow,
The jaded osier, the spined nettle against grey sallow,
Down to a withered sea: then the streets empty of all
Hold only post and stone, seams of street-light and no voice,
Not a green bird in the window or bird in the hall,
Not a dog with whitened claws and deep clamorous noise
In a shut yard; only the airless cupboards of clothes,
Solitary gown and unlaced shoe in every house
In every street; only the ripple of flown ships,
The vague river-lap, low calls of a beckoning sea.
No wave in a tideless air, no closed eye to arouse
With rattle of cup or morning song of whistling lips,
Only a deserted city, a wet cage for me.
Oh terror, let me take hold of this beloved earth,
Book, china-vase, electric switch, waste-paper, what you will,
Lest I be only a breath, only a terror; still,
So still in nothing, that the waves of air
Break at the window, lap and fall and I be nothing,
Not a rock to catch their breaking, not a grass to hold their
sweetness.
Oh terror, there is all the world to confess,
All the universe to travel on a snapped wing,
All the sum of God, ripe as snow or as a yellow pear,
In this strange thought. Let me be still,
Let me take hold on book or vase, electric switch, waste-paper,
what you will,
To strengthen me for this beloved earth.
For I know Christ is come. The climbing river
Bears that grave head, those bearded saints, that thunder
Of harp and shield, psalm, creed, and all the dark
Disconsolations we have laid away.
I know that, Christ is come and will stay ever,
I know the angry saints will kindle and stay,
Kindled and grey as elms beside a park,
Split by prophetic darts like elms asunder.
Christ at the Tower. Oh, I know, I know,
Christ a gold centaur in the Mall. His saints
Preaching at statue, Admiralty, lake
(White pelicans asleep at dawn). Awake,
Despondent blinds in palaces bestir;
Beneath those golden feet the temples ache.
Doves cry abroad (for I have told them so):
“Christ lies at Knightsbridge.” Oh, I know, I know.
“The apples of His words drop fresh and hot,
Ripe, coloured apples, hot as bread and wine.”
The twinkling streets are fired like porcelain.
The world’s skin pricks like glass beneath the fur.
“See, children, how the saints are broad and fine.”
And I am waiting like mysterious Cain
Alone, at this high window which has not
A hope or avenue or new design
Of hiding and escape. “See His grave head,
So tall, so mild, His lips, His hollow palms,
See the swift doves that go to wake the dead.”
Oh, words that are as huge and green as farms
That used to roll across the happy land
Before this siren brought a bubble peace.
“Christ is at Kensington.” The world is here.
Let me take hold. Let pity make increase
Of hopeless anguish. “Christ is on the stair.”
(Alan Pryce-Jones)
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Based on Topics: God Poems, Life Poems, World Poems, Night Poems, Light Poems, Mind Poems, Sadness Poems, Death & Dying Poems, Nature Poems, War & Peace Poems, Christianity PoemsBased on Keywords: immature, pelicans, clattered, despondent, centaur, osier, villainous, intruder, bestir, battened, guttering