To Archibald MacLeish br br The afternoon with heavy hours br Lies vacant on the wanderer's sight br And sunset waits whose cloudy towers br Expect the legions of the night br br Till sullen thunder from the cave br Of twilight with deliberate swell br Whispers the air his darkening slave br To loose the nether bolts of hell br br To crush the battlements of cloud br The wall of light around the West br So that the swarming dark will crowd br The traveller upon his quest br br And all the air with heavy hours br Sinks on the wanderer's dull sight br And the thick dark whose hidden towers br Menace his travel to the night br br Rolls forward, backward hill to hill br Until the seeker knows not where br Beyond the shade of Peachers' Mill br In the burnt meadow, with colourless hair br br The secret ones around a stone br Their lips withdrawn in meet surprise br Lie still, being naught but bone br With naught but space within their eyes br br Until bewildered by the road br And half-forgetful of his quest br The wanderer with such a load br Of breathing, being too late a guest br br Turns back, so near the secret stone, br Falls down breathless at last and blind, br And a dark shift within the bone br Brings him the end he could not find.