破裂的渲染东方缺陷年轻的格力n leaflet's harrier, sworn To strew the garden, strip the shaws, And show our Spring with banner torn. Was ever such virago morn? The wind has teeth, the wind has claws. All the wind's wolves through woods are loose, The wild wind's falconry aloft. Shrill underfoot the grassblade shrews, At gallop, clumped, and down the croft Bestrid by shadows, beaten, tossed; It seems a scythe, it seems a rod. The howl is up at the howl's accost; The shivers greet and the shivers nod. Is the land ship? we are rolled, we drive Tritonly, cleaving hiss and hum; Whirl with the dead, or mount or dive, Or down in dregs, or on in scum. And drums the distant, pipes the near, And vale and hill are grey in grey, As when the surge is crumbling sheer, And sea-mews wing the haze of spray. Clouds--are they bony witches?--swarms, Darting swift on the robber's flight, Hurry an infant sky in arms: It peeps, it becks; 'tis day, 'tis night. Black while over the loop of blue The swathe is closed, like shroud on corse. Lo, as if swift the Furies flew, The Fates at heel at a cry to horse! Interpret me the savage whirr: And is it Nature scourged, or she, Her offspring's executioner, Reducing land to barren sea? But is there meaning in a day When this fierce angel of the air, Intent to throw, and haply slay, Can for what breath of life we bear, Exact the wrestle?--Call to mind The many meanings glistening up When Nature to her nurslings kind, Hands them the fruitage and the cup! And seek we rich significance Not otherwhere than with those tides Of pleasure on the sunned expanse, Whose flow deludes, whose ebb derides? Look in the face of men who fare Lock-mouthed, a match in lungs and thews For this fierce angel of the air, To twist with him and take his bruise. That is the face beloved of old Of Earth, young mother of her brood: Nor broken for us shows the mould When muscle is in mind renewed: Though farther from her nature rude, Yet nearer to her spirit's hold: And though of gentler mood serene, Still forceful of her fountain-jet. So shall her blows be shrewdly met, Be luminously read the scene Where Life is at her grindstone set, That she may give us edgeing keen, String us for battle, till as play The common strokes of fortune shower. Such meaning in a dagger-day Our wits may clasp to wax in power. Yea, feel us warmer at her breast, By spin of blood in lusty drill, Than when her honeyed hands caressed, And Pleasure, sapping, seemed to fill. Behold the life at ease; it drifts. The sharpened life commands its course. She winnows, winnows roughly; sifts, To dip her chosen in her source: Contention is the vital force, Whence pluck they brain, her prize of gifts, Sky of the senses! on which height, Not disconnected, yet released, They see how spirit comes to light, Through conquest of the inner beast, Which Measure tames to movement sane, In harmony with what is fair. Never is Earth misread by brain: That is the welling of her, there The mirror: with one step beyond, For likewise is it voice; and more, Benignest kinship bids respond, When wail the weak, and them restore Whom days as fell as this may rive, While Earth sits ebon in her gloom, Us atomies of life alive Unheeding, bent on life to come. Her children of the labouring brain, These are the champions of the race, True parents, and the sole humane, With understanding for their base. Earth yields the milk, but all her mind Is vowed to thresh for stouter stock. Her passion for old giantkind, That scaled the mount, uphurled the rock, Devolves on them who read aright Her meaning and devoutly serve; Nor in her starlessness of night Peruse her with the craven nerve: But even as she from grass to corn, To eagle high from grubbing mole, Prove in strong brain her noblest born, The station for the flight of soul.