It appears before us,
wringing its dry hands,
quoting from Nietzsche’s book,
from Schopenhauer.
Sing us, we say,
more sunlit occassions;
the child by the still pool
multiplying reflections.
It remains unconsoled
in its dust-storm of tears,
remembering the Crusades,
the tortures, the purges.
But time passes by;
it commits adultery
with it to father the cause
of its continued weeping.
by R. S. Thomas
from Later Poems (1983)
