| This day winding down now
|
| At God speeded summer’s end
|
| In the torrent salmon sun,
|
| In my seashaken house
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| On a breakneck of rocks
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| Tangled with chirrup and fruit,
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| Froth, flute, fin, and quill
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| At a wood’s dancing hoof,
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| By scummed, starfish sands
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| With their fishwife cross
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| Gulls, pipers, cockles, and snails,
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| Out there, crow black, men
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| Tackled with clouds, who kneel
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| To the sunset nets,
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| Geese nearly in heaven, boys
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| Stabbing, and herons, and shells
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| That speak seven seas,
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| Eternal waters away
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| From the cities of nine
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| Days' night whose towers will catch
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| In the religious wind
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| Like stalks of tall, dry straw,
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| At poor peace I sing
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| To you strangers (though song
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| Is a burning and crested act,
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| The fire of birds in
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| The world’s turning wood,
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| For my swan, splay sounds),
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| Out of these seathumbed leaves
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| That will fly and fall
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| Like leaves of trees and as soon
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| Crumble and undie
|
| Into the dogdayed night.
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| Seaward the salmon, sucked sun slips,
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| And the dumb swans drub blue
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| My dabbed bay’s dusk, as I hack
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| This rumpus of shapes |
| For you to know
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| How I, a spining man,
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| Glory also this star, bird
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| Roared, sea born, man torn, blood blest.
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| Hark: I trumpet the place,
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| From fish to jumping hill! |
| Look:
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| I build my bellowing ark
|
| To the best of my love
|
| As the flood begins,
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| Out of the fountainhead
|
| Of fear, rage read, manalive,
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| Molten and mountainous to stream
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| Over the wound asleep
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| Sheep white hollow farms
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| To Wales in my arms.
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| You king singsong owls, who moonbeam
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| The flickering runs and dive
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| The dingle furred deer dead!
|
| Huloo, on plumbed bryns,
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| O my ruffled ring dove
|
| In the hooting, nearly dark
|
| With Welsh and reverent rook,
|
| Coo rooning the woods' praise,
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| Who moons her blue notes from her nest
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| Down to the curlew herd!
|
| Ho, hullaballoing clan
|
| Agape, with woe
|
| In your beaks, on the gabbing capes!
|
| Heigh, on horseback hill, jack
|
| Whisking hare! |
| who
|
| Hears, there, this fox light, my flood ship’s
|
| Clangour as I hew and smite
|
| (A clash of anvils for my
|
| Hubbub and fiddle, this tune
|
| On atounged puffball)
|
| But animals thick as theives
|
| On God’s rough tumbling grounds |
| (Hail to His beasthood!).
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| Beasts who sleep good and thin,
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| Hist, in hogback woods! |
| The haystacked
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| Hollow farms ina throng
|
| Of waters cluck and cling,
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| And barnroofs cockcrow war!
|
| O kingdom of neighbors finned
|
| Felled and quilled, flash to my patch
|
| Work ark and the moonshine
|
| Drinking Noah of the bay,
|
| With pelt, and scale, and fleece:
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| Only the drowned deep bells
|
| Of sheep and churches noise
|
| Poor peace as the sun sets
|
| And dark shoals every holy field.
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| We will ride out alone then,
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| Under the stars of Wales,
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| Cry, Multiudes of arks! |
| Across
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| The water lidded lands,
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| Manned with their loves they’ll move
|
| Like wooden islands, hill to hill.
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| Huloo, my prowed dove with a flute!
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| Ahoy, old, sea-legged fox,
|
| Tom tit and Dai mouse!
|
| My ark sings in the sun
|
| At God speeded summer’s end
|
| And the flood flowers now. |