Now the grey mist comes creeping up <br />From the waste ocean’s weedy strand <br />And fills the valley, as a cup <br />If filled of evil drink in a wizard’s hand; <br />And the trees fade out of sight, <br />Like dreary ghosts unhealthily, <br />Into the damp, pale night, <br />Till you almost think that a clearer eye could see <br />Some shape come up of a demon seeking apart <br />His meat, as Grendel sought in Harte <br />The thanes that sat by the wintry log— <br />Grendel or the shadowy mass <br />Of Balor, or the man with the face of clay, <br />The grey, grey walker who used to pass <br />Over the rock-arch nightly to his prey. <br />But here at the dumb, slow stream where the willows hang, <br />With never a wind to blow the mists apart, <br />Bitter and bitter it is for thee. O my heart, <br />Looking upon this land, where poets sang, <br />Thus with the dreary shroud <br />Unwholesome, over it spread, <br />And knowing the fog and the cloud <br />In her people’s heart and head <br />Even as it lies for ever upon her coasts <br />Making them dim and dreamy lest her sons should ever arise <br />And remember all their boasts; <br />For I know that the colourless skies <br />And the blurred horizons breed <br />Lonely desire and many words and brooding and never a deed.<br /><br />Clive Staples Lewis<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/irish-nocturne/
