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Undertones

Chapter 50: THE WERE-WOLF
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About This Book

A collection of lyric and narrative poems that range from intimate pastoral meditations to mythic and supernatural vignettes. The poems evoke woods, springs, hills, seasons and rural life, often with ornate, musical diction and classical or faery imagery; recurring themes include memory, longing, mortality, creativity, and the uneasy boundary between dream and waking. Several pieces adopt a reflective voice on artistic striving and fame, while others retell folkish tales of were-wolves, headless horsemen, and other uncanny figures. The sequence blends sensual natural description, elegiac mood, and imaginative storytelling, moving between delicate observation and darker undertones of loss and desire.

On the black road through the wood
As I rode,
There the Headless Horseman stood;
By the wild pool in the wood,
As I rode.
From the shadow of an oak,
As I rode,
Demon steed and rider broke;
By the thunder-shattered oak,
As I rode.
On the waste road through the plain,
As I rode,
At my back he whirled like rain;
On the tempest-blackened plain,
As I rode.
Four fierce hoofs shod red with fire,
As I rode,
Woke the wild rocks, dark and dire;
Eyes and nostrils streamed with fire,
As I rode.
On the deep road through the rocks,
As I rode,
I could reach his horse's locks;
Through the echo-hurling rocks,
As I rode.
And again I looked behind,
As I rode,—
Dark as night and swift as wind,
Towering, he rode behind,
As I rode.
On the steep road down the dell,
As I rode,
In the night I heard a bell,
In the village in the dell,
As I rode.
And my soul called out in prayer,
As I rode,—
Lo! the demon went in air,
Leaving me alone in prayer,
As I rode.

THE WERE-WOLF

She.
Nay; still amort, my love? Why dost thou lag?
He.
She.
Nay! yon wild stream that leaps
Hoarse from the black pines of the Hakel steeps,
A moon-tipped water, down a glittering crag.—
Why so aghast, sweetheart? Why dost thou stop?
He.
The demon-huntsman passed with hooting horn!
She.
Nay! 't was the blind wind sweeping through the thorn
Around the ruins of the Dumburg's top.
He.
My limbs are cold.
She.
Come! warm thee in mine arms.
He.
Mine eyes are weary.
She.
Rest them, love, on mine.
He.
I am athirst.
She.
Quench on my lips thy thirst.—
O dear belovéd, how thy last kiss warms
My blood again!
He.
Off!... How thy eyeballs shine!
Thy face!... thy form!... So do I die accursed!


THE TROGLODYTE


THE CITY OF DARKNESS

Wide-walled it stands in heathen lands
Beside a mystic sea,
With streets strange-trod of many a god,
And templed blasphemy.
Far in the night, a rose of light
It shines beside the sea;
But overhead an unknown dread
Impends eternally.
There is a sound above, around
Of music by the sea;
And weird and wide the torches glide
Of pagan revelry.
Then slowly up—as from a cup
Seethes poison—lifts the sea;
Wild mass on mass, as in black glass,
The town glows fiery.
Red-lit it glowers like Hell's dark towers
Set in the iron sea;
And monster swarms with awful forms
Roll though it cloudily.
Still overhead the unknown dread,
Whose shadow dyes the sea,
At wrath-winged wait behind its gate
Till God shall set it free.
A taloned flash, an earthquake crash,
And, lo! upon the sea,
Black wall on wall, a giant pall,
Night settles hideously.
And where it burned, a rose inurned,
Red in the vasty sea,
The phantasm of the dread above
Sits in immensity.


TRANSMUTATION

To me all beauty that I see
Is melody made visible:
An earth-translated state, may be,
Of music heard in Heaven or Hell.
Out of some love-impassioned strain
Of saints, the rose evolved its bloom;
And, dreaming of it here again,
Perhaps re-lives it as perfume.
Out of some chant that demons sing
Of hate and pain, the sunset grew;
And, haply, still remembering,
Re-lives it here as some wild hue.

THE END


FIVE HUNDRED AND FIFTY COPIES OF
THIS BOOK (THIRTY-FIVE COPIES OF
WHICH ARE ON HANDMADE PAPER)
WERE PRINTED DURING MARCH BY
JOHN WILSON AND SON CAMBRIDGE