User:Mahnoorbushrawaqar

Edwin Muir (1887-1959) The Road

There is a road that turning always Cuts off the road of Again. Archers stand there on every side And as it runs time's deer is slain, That busy clock shows never and hour. All files and all in flight must tarry. The hunter shoots the empty air Far on before the quarry, Which falls though nothing is there to parry. The lion couching in the centre With mountains head ans sunset brow, Rolls down the everlasting slope Bones picked an age ago, And the bones risen up and go. There the beginning finds the end Before beginning ever can be, And there the runner never leaves The starting and the finishing tree, The budding and the fading tree. There the ship sailing safe in harbour, Long since in many a sea was drowned. The treasure burning in her hold So near will never be found, Sunk past all sound. There a man on the summer evening Reclines at ease upon his tomb And is his mortal effigy And there within the womb, The cell of doom, The ancestral deed is thought and done, And in a million Edens fall A million Adam's drowned in darkness, For small is great and great is small. And a blind seed all.