Publisher's Synopsis
PLUNGING and labouring on in a tide of visions, Dolorous and dear, Forward I pushed my way as amid waste watersStretching around, Through whose eddies there glimmered the customed landscapeYonder and near, Blotted to feeble mist. And the coomb and the uplandFoliage-crowned, Ancient chalk-pit, milestone, rills in the grass-flatStroked by the light, Seemed but a ghost-like gauze, and no substantialMeadow or mound.What were the infinite spectacles bulking foremostUnder my sight, Hindering me to discern my paced advancementLengthening to miles;What were the re-creations killing the daytimeAs by the night?O they were speechful faces, gazing insistent, Some as with smiles, Some as with slow-born tears that brinily trundledOver the wreckedCheeks that were fair in their flush-time, ash now with anguish, Harrowed by wiles.Yes, I could see them, feel them, hear them, address them-Halo-bedecked-And, alas, onwards, shaken by fierce unreason, Rigid in hate, Smitten by years-long wryness born of misprision, Dreaded, suspect.Then there would breast me shining sights, sweet seasonsFurther in date;Instruments of strings with the tenderest passionVibrant, besideLamps long extinguished, robes, cheeks, eyes with the earth's crustN
