Which is mighty being dead.
The film that floats before their eyes
The Temple's Veil they call;
And the dust that on the Shewbread lies
Is holy over all.
Warn them of seas that slip our yoke
Of slow conspiring stars--
The ancient Front of Things unbroke
But heavy with new wars?
By--they are by with mirth and tears.
Wit or the waste of Desire--
Cushioned about on the kindly years
Between the wall and the fire.
BELOW THE MILL DAM
"Book--Book--Domesday Book!" They were letting in the water for the evening
stint at Robert's Mill, and the wooden Wheel where lived the Spirit of the
Mill settled to its nine hundred year old song: "Here Azor, a freeman,
held one rod, but it never paid geld. _Nun-nun-nunquam geldavit_. Here
Reinbert has one villein and four cottars with one plough--and wood for
six hogs and two fisheries of sixpence and a mill of ten shillings--_unum
molinum_--one mill. Reinbert's mill--Robert's Mill. Then and afterwards
and now--_tunc et post et modo_--Robert's Mill. Book--Book--Domesday
Book!"
"I confess," said the Black Rat on the crossbeam, luxuriously trimming his
whiskers--"I confess I am not above appreciating my position and all it
means." He was a genuine old English black rat, a breed which, report
says, is rapidly diminishing before the incursions of the brown variety.
"Appreciation is the surest sign of inadequacy," said the Grey Cat, coiled
up on a piece of sacking.
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