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Old servile sleep descends on heavy wings
From laden summits wrapped in icy clouds 
When, glassy-eyed, the owl cold midnight rings
And snowy mist the starry light enshrouds. 

Atop the ancient firs, the birds lie still
And cling to life as sucklings to their womb
In crypt-like valleys, where the frozen rill
Many a trout encased in quick and early tomb. 

What moves in yonder cave beside the lake?
A gaunt and shapeless specter lurks beneath
The mantle of the earth, whose embers quake
And melt the lurid winter’s spiny teeth. 

How delicate is all that grows above
The burning bosom of our earthen sphere,
Encased in Gaia’s moist and gentle glove,
Whose sap refreshes nature year by year!

Though constancy may seem to reign
O’er things which grow and bear the fruits of joy, 
Much more these need than light and earth and rain
And more indeed than nature can deploy. 

What comforts does Life have? Its subtle strength
Is but a leaf blown over by the winds,
Distraught by death, and cruelly plagued at length
By patient dæmons and by wakeful fiends. 

Upon the vaulted panoply of stars, 
Our humble globe drifts sluggishly, well seen
By mighty stars whose glutton longing mars
The will of Life and her fugacious sheen. 

The splendid titans of the evening sky
Shine blindingly, far stronger than our Sun
And, though afar their blazing course may lie,
A clash may chance before our star is gone. 

What then of Earth, its valleys and its peaks, 
Of summer love, of countless birds, of Life, 
Who all her aims in solitude oft seeks,
Away from lightless grave or astral strife?

Dark mysteries to man these riddles are, 
For our dim sight such views cannot contain:
We were not born to dream and plan too far, 
No matter how much ruse and wit we feign. 

Though we should know that Life might die in pain,
We cannot help but live within our shell,
For all attempts to dodge divine conceit are vain,
And thoughts too deep sheer madness could foretell. 

Sprung of low birth upon an orb of clay, 
Man’s musings may well take him far indeed,
Though powerless is he to fathom, nay, 
To change Life’s fate, though dire may be her need. 

Find my poems and published poetry volumes at www.eton-langford.com
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