R. W. HUGHES (ORIEL)

UNDER the crags of Teiriwch, The door-sills of the Sun, Where God has left the bony earth Just as it was begun; Where clouds sail past like argosies Breasting the crested hills, With mainsail and foretop-sail That the thin breeze fills; With ballast of round thunder, And anchored with the rain; With a long shadow sounding The deep, far plain: Where rocks are broken playthings By petulant gods hurled, And Heaven sits a-straddle On the roof-ridge of the World. —Under the crags of Teiriwch Is a round pile of stones: Large stones, small stones, —White as old bones; Some from high places, Or from the lake’s shore; And every man that passes Adds one more: The years it has been growing Verge on a hundred score. For in the cave of Teiriwch That scarce holds a sheep, Where plovers and rock-conies And wild things sleep, A woman lived for ninety years On bilberries and moss And lizards, and small creeping things, And carved herself a cross: But wild hill robbers Found the ancient saint And dragged her to the sunlight, Making no complaint: Too old was she for weeping, Too shrivelled, and too dry: She crouched and mumle-mumled And mumled to the sky. No breath had she for wailing, Her cheeks were paper-thin: She was, for all her holiness As ugly as sin. They cramped her in a barrel —All but her bobbing head. —And rolled her down from Teiriwch Until she was dead: They took her out, and buried her —Just broken bits of bone And rags and skin: and over her Set one small stone: But if you pass her sepulchre And add not one thereto The ghost of that old murdered Saint Will roll in front of you The whole night through. The clouds sail past in argosies And cold drips the rain: The whole world is far and high Above the tilted plain. The silent mist floats eerily, And I am here alone: Dare I pass the place by, And cast not a stone?

“IF kith and kin disowned you, And all your friends were dead?” —I’d buy a spotted handkerchief To flaunt upon my head: I’d resurrect my maddest clothes, And gaily would I laugh, And climb the proud hills scornfully With swinging cherry staff. “But when you’d crossed the sky-line, And knew you were alone?” —I’d cast away the hollow sham, I’d kick the ground, and groan, And tear my coloured handkerchief And snap my staff; and then I’d curse the God that built me up To break me down again.