  A shaft of moon from the cloud-hurried sky, Has coursed the wide dark heath, but nowhere found One paler patch to illumine—oats nor rye, Chalk-pit nor waterpool nor sandy ground— Till, checked by our thronged faces on the mound (A wedge of whiteness) universally Strained backward from the task that holds us bound, It beams on set jaw and hate-maddened eye. The vast stone lifts, turns, topples, in its fall Spreads death: but we who live raise a shrill chant Of joy for sacrifice cleansing us all. Once more we heave. Erect in earth we plant, The interpreter of our dumb furious call, Outraging Heaven, pointing "I want, I want." |
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