The Song of the Ungrit Runners

We swing ungirded hips, 
And lightened are our eyes, 
The rain is on our lips, 
We do not run for prize. 
We know not whom we trust 
Nor whitherward we fare, 
But we run because we must 
Through the great wide air. 

The waters of the seas 
Are troubled as by storm. 
The tempest strips the trees 
And does not leave them warm. 
Does the tearing tempest pause? 
Do the tree-tops ask it why? 
So we run without a cause 
'Neath the big bare sky. 

The rain is on our lips, 
We do not run for prize. 
But the storm the water whips 
And the wave howls to the skies. 
The winds arise and strike it 
And scatter it like sand, 
And we run because we like it 
Through the broad bright land.
by Charles Hamilton Sorley

No comments:

Post a Comment