Page:Poems and ballads (IA poemsballads00swinrich).pdf/215

Wan waves and wet winds labour,
⁠Weak ships and spirits steer;
They drive adrift, and whither
They wot not who make thither;
But no such winds blow hither,
⁠And no such things grow here.

No growth of moor or coppice,
⁠No heather-flower or vine,
But bloomless buds of poppies,
⁠Green grapes of Proserpine,
Pale beds of blowing rushes
Where no leaf blooms or blushes
Save this whereout she crushes
⁠For dead men deadly wine.

Pale, without name or number,
⁠In fruitless fields of corn,
They bow themselves and slumber
⁠All night till light is born;
And like a soul belated,
In hell and heaven unmated,
By cloud and mist abated
⁠Comes out of darkness morn.

Though one were strong as seven,
⁠He too with death shall dwell,
Nor wake with wings in heaven,
⁠Nor weep for pains in hell;