Recently i took to reading at bedtime a few poems from
Housman's later collections--More Poems; Last Poems--
which, though they contain a few widely-anthologized
pieces, remain relatively unknown (next to A Shropshire
Lad). It can be said without too much injustice that H.
mostly wrote the same poem over & over--but only if you
add, sometimes that poem turned out perfect. Here's one
a bit outside his usual range:
"When Israel out of Egypt came,
Safe in the sea they trod;
By day in cloud, by night in flames,
Went on before them God.
He brought them with a stretched-out hand
Dry-footed through the foam,
Past sword and famine, rock and sand,
Lust and rebellion, home.
I never over Horeb heard
The blast of advent blow;
No fire-faced prophet brought me word
Which way behoved me go.
Ascended is the cloudy flame,
The mount of thunder dumb;
The tokens that to Israel came,
To me they have not come.
I see the country far away
Where I shall never stand;
The heart goes where no footstep may
Into the promised land.
The realm I look upon and die
Another man will own;
He shall attain the heaven that I
Perish and have not known.
But I will go where they are hid
That never were begot,
To my inheritance amid
The nation that is not.
Where mixed with me the sandstorms drift,
And nerve and heart and brain
Are ashes for the air to lift,
And lightly shower again."
|