Spirits in Bondage

by C.S. Lewis

V. Irish Nocturne

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