Free The Bird-Catcher by Martin Armstrong Page B

long-forgotten suns.
    Unlock the door, then; down the dark stone stair
    Grope in the taper’s wavering light to where
    The cobwebbed bottle slumbers; gently lift—
    Gently as new-born babe—lest you should shift
    The cloudy sediment; then thief-like slink
    Upstairs again and in the pantry sink
    Knock off the sealing-wax, then draw with care,
    Decant, and set in a warm room to air.
    Then shall we sit and sip in candle light
    And let the storm roar out its heart all night.

Rhapsody on a Pink-Iced Cake
    To Gertrude Freeman
    When Earth arose out of the Flood
    And sang before the throne of God,
    So shone on Ararat sublime,
    Bright in the second dawn of Time,
    The rosy Ark, its roofing laid
    With beam of ruby, tile of jade,
    And the bright bulwarks crusted o’er
    With silver limpets from the floor
    Of the drowned Earth. So Solomon,
    Dreaming towards evening alone,
    In the clear kingdom of his brain
    Wrought that first temple without stain,
    Too pure for stone or the rough grain
    Of cedar or the dross of gold.
    And Homer, blind and very old,
    Along the wide plains of his thought
    Saw battles and long sieges fought
    Round ramparts rosy even as these.
    So soared above the glooming trees
    That tower of laughter and of tears
    Where Beauty slept a hundred years.
    And, built of sweetness and pure light,
    So love and hope and heart’s-delight
    And all the lovely things of dream,
    Hovering an instant on the stream
    Of Man’s ambitious spirit, glow
    And vanish like an April snow.

The Eve of the Fair
    Green grows the grass in these well-watered meadows
    For here there bubbles from a hundred springs
    The bright Clitumnus under dappled shadows
    Of slender poplars where the faint breeze sings
    And the green-showering tresses of weeping willows;
    And all the pool is floored with woven weed
    And caverns lined with glimmering mossy pillows
    And pale blue rocks. Those bubbling waters feed
    Rich farms, half-hidden behind a feathery screen
    Of silver olive-boughs and trailing vines
    Heavy with clusters purple, red, and green,
    Soon to be trodden to red and golden wines.
    And bounding either edge of the green plain,
    The violet mountains lift their peaceful crowns,
    Soaring like waves crest above crest again,
    Still peopled by remote and ancient towns,—
    Lofty Spoleto with its rocky gorge
    Spanned by the aqueduct, and many a keep,
    Spello and Montefalco, towns that urge
    Stone street and scowling palace up the steep
    And set a crown of towers on many hills,
    Leaping abrupt and stark against the sky
    And turbid at noon and eve with clanging bells.
    From these and all the villages that lie
    Scattered upon the plain, the countryfolk
    Are flocking towards Foligno for the fair,
    Bringing their goods. With song and curse and joke
    They swelter along in the dry and dusty glare.
    All day along the parched and dazzling roads
    That straggle to the town from every part,
    Oxen and mules and horses draw their loads
    In wain and barrow and brightly painted cart.
    While in the town all day, along the streets
    And in that empty space within the walls
    Edged with cool-shaded trees and long stone seats,
    A crowd of busy folk are building stalls;
    Till the place rings with hammering and knocking
    And cracking whips and jangling harness-bells
    And rumbling wheels of all the traffic flocking
    In from the teeming plains and those blue hills.
    Still with the growing crowd the din grows louder
    With shouts of drivers, wagons turning, backing,
    And stamping hooves that churn the dust to powder
    And sweating men unloading and unpacking,
    Spreading the wares in clusters on the grass
    All duly planned like little towns with walls
    And lanes and streets to let the buyers pass,
    Or carefully disposed upon the stalls.
    And carts and mules come pushing through the throng
    Or scarlet wagon like a stranded hulk
    That great white oxen slowly haul along
    Heaving the yoke with all their noble bulk,
    Patient, with branching horns and deep calm eyes
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