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2
I know a wasted place high in the Alps
Called Witches’ Kitchen. There the sun all day
With aberrant change of shadows plagues the eyes,
And when the equinoctial moon has play
Upon the beast-like monoliths of stone,
The blood runs cold as its old passions rise
To haunt the memory of what we are
And what we do in worshipping brute skies.
Below this waste of spirit and of mind
The village Holy Blood with ordered care
Was founded on deep meadows. Yearly, sheep
Are brought to graze in summer pastures there.
Its people sow and harvest grain together
Between the comings of the winter’s ice,
And when they stop to take a quick sprung flower,
Its being and their gesture will suffice
To balance what they are and what are not.
And if we turn to look within the town
Upon a wall we find the stencilled group
Of Mary, John, and others taking down
The body of their Master from the tree.
And just at dusk the daylight’s weakened pace
Shades the blue chalk of Mary’s robe with red;
And her faint tears are red upon His face.
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