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    It Centuries

    Uploaded by

    Om Prakash Kumar

    Copyright:

    © All Rights Reserved
    Download as PDF, TXT or read online from Scribd

    It Centuries

    Uploaded by

    Om Prakash Kumar
    3 views2 pages

    Original Title

    it centuries

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    Copyright:

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    3 views2 pages

    It Centuries

    Uploaded by

    Om Prakash Kumar

    Copyright:

    © All Rights Reserved
    Download as PDF, TXT or read online from Scribd
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    it is centuries; but each

    Feels shorter than the day


    I first surmised the horses' heads
    Were toward eternity.And Eurypylus, son of Euaemon, killed Hypsenor, the son of
    noble Dolopion, who had been made priest of the river Scamander, and was
    honoured among the people as though he were a god. Eurypylus gave him chase
    as he was flying before him, smote him with his sword upon the arm, and lopped
    his strong hand from off it. The bloody hand fell to the ground, and the shades
    of death, with fate that no man can withstand, came over his eyes. Thus
    furiously did the battle rage between them. As for the son of Tydeus, you could
    not say whether he was more among the Achaeans or the Trojans. He rushed
    across the plain like a winter torrent that has burst its barrier in full flood; no
    dykes, no walls of fruitful vineyards can embank it when it is swollen with rain
    from heaven, but in a moment it comes tearing onward, and lays many a field
    waste that many a strong man hand has reclaimed- even so were the dense
    phalanxes of the Trojans driven in rout by the son of Tydeus, and many though
    they were, they dared not abide his onslaught.
    Because I could not stop for Death,
    He kindly stopped for me;
    The carriage held but just ourselves
    And Immortality.

    We slowly drove, he knew no haste,


    And I had put away
    My labor, and my leisure too,
    For his civility.

    We paused before a house that seemed


    A swelling of the ground;
    The roof was scarcely visible,
    The cornice but a mound.

    Since then 't is centuries; but each


    Feels shorter than the day
    I first surmised the horses' heads
    Were toward eternity.

    To begin at the beginning:

    It is Spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobblestreets silent and
    the hunched, courters'-and- rabbits' wood limping invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black,
    crowblack, fishingboat-bobbing sea. The houses are blind as moles (though moles see fine to-night in
    the snouting, velvet dingles) or blind as Captain Cat there in the muffled middle by the pump and the
    town clock, the shops in mourning, the Welfare Hall in widows' weeds. And all the people of the
    lulled and dumbfound town are sleeping now.
    Hush, the babies are sleeping, the farmers, the fishers, the tradesmen and pensioners, cobbler,
    schoolteacher, postman and publican, the undertaker and the fancy woman, drunkard, dressmaker,
    preacher, policeman, the webfoot cocklewomen and the tidy wives. Young girls lie bedded soft or
    glide in their dreams, with rings and trousseaux, bridesmaided by glow-worms down the aisles of the
    organplaying wood. The boys are dreaming wicked or of the bucking ranches of the night and the
    jollyrogered sea. And the anthracite statues of the horses sleep in the fields, and the cows in the
    byres, and the dogs in the wet-nosed yards; and the cats nap in the slant corners or lope sly,
    streaking and needling, on the one cloud of the roofs.

    You can hear the dew falling, and the hushed town breathing.

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