Reading 37 - The Ghost of the Game
The Ghost of the Game
(Where the Shy White Deer Later Walked)
Through the long wounded night,
And the slow losing drum,
The ghost of the game still calling calls . . .
Through the tough winter wheat,
and the tall longing pines,
and the rough beechmast a-crunching crunching.
Through the cold grey cloisters,
and the low pining sky,
and the sluice of the snow swirling whirling.
Through the cracked porcelain tiles,
and the bare boisterous stalls,
Through the mud spattered walls I'm shaking shaking.
Through the blue-filmed fountains,
and the fresh showering steam,
and the heat from the vapours rising rising.
Through the bold white branches,
and the light muscled boughs,
His warm black moss comes surging! surging!
Through the long battered night,
Through the slow bruising drum,
The throb from the game – Calling! - Calling!
