Inside Haworth Parsonage
This little room seems far too narrow now
for the imaginations that combined
within it, so resoundingly, as though
they made up one enormous fevered mind
that found a greater drawing room outdoors,
that learned to hear the voices in the wind,
that made itself familiar to the moors
and called the intermittent stars its friends.
O to be young and gods in such a world!
To walk for a while in such exalted ways
until, with a catch of breath, they are recalled
inside, and back to earth, to end their days.
The articles of angry disbelief:
the sainted couch, a blood-stained handkerchief.
If you have any
thoughts on this poem, David
Callin would be pleased to hear them.