The Road
- By Edwin Muir
There is a road that turning always
Cuts off the country of Again.
Archers stand there on every side
And as it runs time's deer is slain,
And lies where it has lain.
That busy clock shows never an hour.
All flies and all in flight must tarry.
The hunter shoots the empty air
Far on before the quarry.
Which falls though nothing's there to parry.
The lion couching in the centre
With mountain head and sunset brow
Rolls down the everlasting slope
Bones picked an age ago,
And the bones rise up and go.
There the beginning finds the end
Before beginning ever can be,
And the great runner never leaves
The starting and the finishing tree,
The budding and the fading tree.
There the ship sailing safe in harbour
Long since in many a sea was drowned.
The treasure burning in her hold
So near will never be found,
Sunk past all sound.
There a man on a summer evening
Reclines at ease upon his tomb
And is his mortal effigy
And there within the womb
The cell of doom,
The ancestral deed is thought and done,
And in the million Edens fall
A million Adams drowned in darkness,
For small is great and great is small,
And a blind seed all.
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