In the grey clefts where no rain falls In mazy dens where smoke clings to the walls Men dwell in confused villages; The old among them have for many years Talked of the wind-swept plains and the low hills Where mint and strawberry are sprent, And they have sought for to prepare To be translated there; It seems the bindle is too light, Nor the cartographer Daring enough to take unto the path: One of his eyes is glass. They contemplate the rituals of death, Forgetful all of them of those that left And took their furs and skins And washed them in a silver bath, And wrought the pegs of tents Out of the purest elements; As they began to walk so they began to sing; Their skin, that had been sunless white, In golden arabesques began to gleam; Their hair gloamed bluely as the stars, Their eyes began to decant speech In visible invisibilities, And where they stepped The very earth was chrysoprase, And the rain fell like feathered bells.
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Where No Rain Falls
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In the grey clefts where no rain falls In mazy dens where smoke clings to the walls Men dwell in confused villages; The old among them have for many years Talked of the wind-swept plains and the low hills Where mint and strawberry are sprent, And they have sought for to prepare To be translated there; It seems the bindle is too light, Nor the cartographer Daring enough to take unto the path: One of his eyes is glass. They contemplate the rituals of death, Forgetful all of them of those that left And took their furs and skins And washed them in a silver bath, And wrought the pegs of tents Out of the purest elements; As they began to walk so they began to sing; Their skin, that had been sunless white, In golden arabesques began to gleam; Their hair gloamed bluely as the stars, Their eyes began to decant speech In visible invisibilities, And where they stepped The very earth was chrysoprase, And the rain fell like feathered bells.