The Town Without A Market

There lies afar behind a western hill     The Town without a Market, white and still;     For six feet long and not a third as high     Are those small habitations. There stood I,     Waiting to hear the citizens beneath     Murmur and sigh and speak through tongueless teeth.     When all the world lay burning in the sun     I heard their voices speak to me. Said one:     "Bright lights I loved and colours, I who find     That death is darkness, and has struck me blind."     Another cried: "I used to sing and play,     But here the world is silent, day by day."     And one: "On earth I could not see or hear,     But with my fingers touched what I was near,     And knew things round and soft, and brass from gold,     And dipped my hand in water, to feel cold,     And thought the grave would cure me, and was glad     When the time came to lose what joy I had."     Soon all the voices of a hundred dead     Shouted in wrath together. Someone said,     "I care not, but the girl was sweet to kiss     At evening in the meadows." "Hard it is"     Another cried, "to hear no hunting horn.     Ah me! the horse, the hounds, and the great grey morn     When I rode out a-hunting." And one sighed,     "I did not see my son before I died."     A boy said, "I was strong and swift to run:     Now they have tied my feet: what have I done?"     A man, "But it was good to arm and fight     And storm their cities in the dead of night."     An old man said, "I read my books all day,     But death has taken all my books away."     And one, "The popes and prophets did not well     To cheat poor dead men with false hopes of hell.     Better the whips of fire that hiss and rend     Than painless void proceeding to no end."     I smiled to hear them restless, I who sought     Peace. For I had not loved, I had not fought,     And books are vanities, and manly strength     A gathered flower. God grant us peace at length!     I heard no more, and turned to leave their town     Before the chill came, and the sun went down.     Then rose a whisper, and I seemed to know     A timorous man, buried long years ago.     "On Earth I used to shape the Thing that seems.     Master of all men, give me back my dreams.     Give me that world that never failed me then,     The hills I made and peopled with tall men,     The palace that I built and called my home,     My cities which could break the pride of Rome,     The three queens hidden in the sacred tree,     And those white cloudy folk who sang to me.     O death, why hast thou covered me so deep?     I was thy sister's child, the friend of Sleep."     Then said my heart, Death takes and cannot give.     Dark with no dream is hateful: let me live!