Slow the dull fulcrum, slow the arched leanings
Of hill on hill and witless lifting of stark eyes
To craven stone. White the wet lattice of morning
Over dusty drums, and keen the agony of dry roots
Questing beneath the earth.
Lean as brown straws
The hounds of day tread out thickets of darkness,
Damp the grasses their bodies have brushed in passing,
Thinner than fly-wings, heavier than words in a cavern,
Wilder than thoughts creaming the tongue unspoken.
Hounds on the mountain . . .
Grey and swift-spinning, the quarry shall turn
At the cove’s ending, at the slow day’s breaking,
And lave the violent shadows with her blood.