Chagrin

Caught still as Absalom, Surely the air hangs From the swayless cloud-boughs Like hair of Absalom Caught and hanging still. From the imagined weight Of spaces in a sky Of mute chagrin my thoughts Hang like branch-clung hair To trunks of silence swung, With the choked soul weighing down Into thick emptiness. Christ, end this hanging death, For endlessness hangs therefrom ! Invisibly branches break From invisible trees: The cloud-woods where we rush (Our eyes holding so much), Which we must ride dim ages round Ere the hands (we dream) can touch, We ride, we ride-before the morning The secret roots of the sun to tread- And suddenly We are lifted of all we know, And hang from implacable boughs.