Poem On His Birthday

In the mustardseed sun，

　　By full tilt¹ river and switchback sea

　　Where the cormorants² scud³，

　　In his house on stilts⁴ high among beaks⁵

　　And palavers⁶ of birds

　　This sandgrain day in the bent⁷ bay's grave

　　He celebrates and spurns⁸

　　His driftwood thirty-fifth wind turned age；

　　Herons spire⁹ and spear.

　　Under and round him go

　　Flounders， gulls¹⁰， on their cold， dying trails，

　　Doing what they are told，

　　Curlews aloud in the congered waves

　　Work at their ways to death，

　　And the rhymer in the long tongued room，

　　Who tolls¹¹ his birthday bell，

　　Toils¹² towards the ambush¹³ of his wounds；

　　Herons， steeple stemmed， bless.

　　In the thistledown fall，

　　He sings towards anguish¹⁴； finches fly

　　In the claw tracks of hawks¹⁵

　　On a seizing sky； small fishes glide¹⁶

　　Through wynds and shells of drowned

　　Ship towns to pastures of otters¹⁷. He

　　In his slant¹⁸， racking house

　　And the hewn coils of his trade perceives

　　Herons walk in their shroud¹⁹，

　　The livelong river's robe

　　Of minnows wreathing around their prayer；

　　And far at sea he knows，

　　Who slaves to his crouched²⁰， eternal end

　　Under a serpent cloud，

　　Dolphins dive in their turnturtle dust，

　　The rippled²¹ seals streak²² down

　　To kill and their own tide daubing blood

　　Slides good in the sleek²³ mouth.

　　In a cavernous， swung

　　Wave's silence， wept white angelus knells²⁴.

　　Thirty-five bells sing struck

　　On skull²⁵ and scar where his loves lie wrecked²⁶，

　　Steered²⁷ by the falling stars.

　　And to-morrow weeps in a blind cage

　　Terror will rage apart

　　Before chains break to a hammer flame

　　And love unbolts the dark

　　And freely he goes lost

　　In the unknown， famous light of great

　　And fabulous²⁸， dear God.

　　Dark is a way and light is a place，

　　Heaven that never was

　　Nor will be ever is always true，

　　And， in that brambled void，

　　Plenty as blackberries in the woods

　　The dead grow for His joy.

　　There he might wander bare

　　With the spirits of the horseshoe bay

　　Or the stars' seashore dead，

　　Marrow²⁹ of eagles， the roots of whales

　　And wishbones of wild geese，

　　With blessed， unborn God and His Ghost，

　　And every soul His priest，

　　Gulled³⁰ and chanter in young Heaven's fold

　　Be at cloud quaking peace，

　　But dark is a long way.

　　He， on the earth of the night， alone

　　With all the living， prays，

　　Who knows the rocketing wind will blow

　　The bones out of the hills，

　　And the scythed³¹ boulders³² bleed， and the last

　　Rage shattered waters kick

　　Masts and fishes to the still quick starts，

　　Faithlessly unto Him

　　Who is the light of old

　　And air shaped Heaven where souls grow wild

　　As horses in the foam³³：

　　Oh， let me midlife mourn by the shrined

　　And druid herons' vows³⁴

　　The voyage to ruin I must run，

　　Dawn ships clouted³⁵ aground，

　　Yet， though I cry with tumbledown tongue，

　　Count my blessings³⁷ aloud：

　　Four elements and five

　　Senses， and man a spirit in love

　　Tangling³⁸ through this spun³⁹ slime

　　To his nimbus bell cool kingdom come

　　And the lost， moonshine domes⁴⁰，

　　And the sea that hides his secret selves

　　Deep in its black， base bones，

　　Lulling⁴¹ of spheres in the seashell flesh，

　　And this last blessing³⁶ most，

　　That the closer I move

　　To death， one man through his sundered⁴² hulks，

　　The louder the sun blooms

　　And the tusked⁴³， ramshackling sea exults⁴⁴；

　　And every wave of the way

　　And gale⁴⁵ I tackle， the whole world then，

　　With more triumphant⁴⁶ faith

　　That ever was since the world was said，

　　Spins its morning of praise，

　　I hear the bouncing hills

　　Grow larked⁴⁷ and greener at berry brown

　　Fall and the dew larks⁴⁸ sing

　　Taller this thunderclap spring， and how

　　More spanned with angles ride

　　The mansouled fiery⁴⁹ islands！ Oh，

　　Holier then their eyes，

　　And my shining men no more alone

　　As I sail out to die.