by Yvor Winters
Through autumn evening, water whirls thin blue
From iron to iron pail—old, lined, and pure;
Beneath, the iron is indistinct, secure
In revery that cannot reach to you.
Water it was that always lay between
The mind of men and that harsh wall of thorn,
Of stone impenetrable, where the horn
Hung like the key to what it all might mean.
My goats step guardedly, with delicate
Hard flanks and forest hair, unchanged and firm,
A strong tradition that has not grown old.
Peace to the lips that bend in intricate
Old motions, that flinch not before their term!
Peace to the heart that can accept this cold!
Note: A recitation can be heard here.