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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=408401" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Curse of Mother Flood</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Wizened the wood is, and wan is the way through it;<br>White as a corpse is the face of the fen;<br>Only blue adders abide in and stray through it—<br>Adders and venom and horrors to men.<br>Here is the “ghost of a garden” whose minister<br>Fosters strange blossoms that startle and scare.<br>Red as man’s blood is the sun that, with sinister<br>Flame, is a menace of hell in the air.<br>Wrinkled and haggard the hills are—the jags of them<br>Gape like to living and ominous things:<br>Storm and dry thunder cry out in the crags of them—<br>Fire, and the wind with a woe in its wings. <br>Never a moon without clammy-cold shroud on it<br>Hitherward comes, or a flower-like star!<br>Only the hiss of the tempest is loud on it—<br>Hiss, and the moan of a bitter sea bar.<br>Here on this waste, and to left and to right of it,<br>Never is lisp or the ripple of rain:<br>Fierce is the daytime and wild is the night of it,<br>Flame without limit and frost without wane!<br>Trees half alive, with the sense of a curse on them,<br>Shudder and shrink from the black heavy gale;<br>Ghastly, with boughs like the plumes of a hearse on them:<br>Barren of blossom and blasted with bale. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Under the cliff that stares down to the south of it—<br>Back by the horns of a hazardous hill,<br>Dumb is the gorge with a grave in the mouth of it<br>Still, as a corpse in a coffin is still.<br>Never there hovers a hope of the Spring by it—<br>Never a glimmer of yellow and green:<br>Only the bat with a whisper of wing by it<br>Flits like a life out of flesh and unseen.<br>Here are the growths that are livid and glutinous,<br>Speckled, and bloated with poisonous blood:<br>This is the haunt of the viper-breed mutinous:<br>Cursed with the curse of weird Catherine Flood. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">He that hath looked on it—hurried aghast from it,<br>Hair of him frozen with horror straightway,<br>Chased by a sudden strange pestilent blast from it—<br>Where is the speech of him—what can he say?<br>Hath he not seen the fierce ghost of a hag in it?<br>Heard maledictions that startle the stars?<br>Dumb is his mouth as a mouth with a gag in it—<br>Mute is his life as a life within bars.<br>Just the one glimpse of that grey, shrieking woman there<br>Ringed by a circle of furnace and fiend!<br>He that went happy and healthy and human there—<br>Where shall the white leper fly to be cleaned? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here, in a pit with indefinite doom on it,<br>Here, in the fumes of a feculent moat,<br>Under an alp with inscrutable gloom on it,<br>Squats the wild witch with a ghoul at her throat!<br>Black execration that cannot be spoken of—<br>Speech of red hell that would suffocate Song,<br>Starts from this terror with never a token of<br>Day and its loveliness all the year long.<br>Sin without name to it—man never heard of it—<br>Crime that would startle a fiend from his lair,<br>Blasted this Glen, and the leaf and the bird of it—<br>Where is there hope for it, Father, O where? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Far in the days of our fathers, the life in it<br>Blossomed and beamed in the sight of the sun:<br>Yellow and green and the purple were rife in it,<br>Singers of morning and waters that run.<br>Storm of the equinox shed no distress on it,<br>Thunder spoke softly, and summer-time left<br>Sunset’s forsaken bright beautiful dress on it—<br>Blessing that shone half the night in the cleft.<br>Hymns of the highlands—hosannas from hills by it,<br>Psalms of great forests made holy the spot:<br>Cool were the mosses and clear were the rills by it—<br>Far in the days when the Horror was not. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Twenty miles south is the strong, shining Hawkesbury—<br>Spacious and splendid, and lordly with blooms.<br>There, between mountains magnificent, walks bury<br>Miles of their beauty in green myrtle glooms.<br>There, in the dell, is the fountain with falls by it—<br>Falls, and a torrent of summering stream:<br>There is the cave with the hyaline halls by it—<br>Haunt of the echo and home of the dream.<br>Over the hill, by the marvellous base of it,<br>Wanders the wind with a song in its breath<br>Out to the sea with the gold on the face of it—<br>Twenty miles south of the Valley of Death.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Henry+Kendall">Henry Kendall</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=408401" data-title="The Curse of Mother Flood de Henry Kendall" data-description="Wizened the wood is, and wan is the way through it;
White as a corpse is the face of the fen;
Only blue adders abide in and stray through it—
Adders and venom and horrors to men.
Here is the “ghost of a garden” whose minister
Fosters strange..."></div>
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