Easter. The grave clothes of winter
are still here, but the sepulchre
is empty. A messenger
from the tomb tells us
how a stone has been rolled
from the mind, and a tree lightens
the darkness with its blossom.
There are travellers upon the roads
who have heard music blown
from a bare bough, and a child
tells us how the accident
of last year, a machine stranded
beside the way for lack
of petrol is covered with flowers.
by R. S. Thomas
Turn round, O Life, and know with eyes aghast
The breast that fed thee – Death, disguiseless, stern:
Even now, within my mouth, from tomb and urn,
The dust is sweet. All nurture that thou hast
Was once as thou, and fed with lips made fast
On Death, whose sateless mouth it fed in turn.
Kingdoms abased, and Thrones that starward yearn,
All are but ghouls that batten on the past.
Monsterous and dread, must it forever abide,
This inescapable alternity?
Must beauty blossom, rooted in decay,
And night devour its flaming hues always?
Sickening, will Life not turn eventually,
Or ravenous Death at last be satisfied?
by Clark Ashton Smith
Rambling At The Bridge Head 