J.
C.
Squire.
Is it
that now
a year
has
passed
Of
vain
pursuit
of glittering
things,
Of fruitless
searching ,
shouting , running ,
And
greedy
lies
and
candour
cunning ,
Here as
I
stand
the year above
Sudden
the heats
and
the strivings
fail
And
fall
away ,
a
fluctuant veil,
And
the
fixed
familiar
stones
restore
The
old
appearance -buried
core ,
The moveless
and
essential
me,
The
eternal
personality
Alone
enduring
first
and
last ?
No,
this
I have
known
in
other
ways,
In
other
places, other
days.
Not
only
here ,
on
this
one
peak ,
Do
fixity
and
beauty
speak
Of
the
delusiveness
of
change
Of the
transparency
of
form ,
The
bootless
stress
of minds
that
range ,
The awful
calm
behind
the
storm .
In
many
places , many
days ,
The
invaded
soul
receives
the
rays
Of countries
she was
nurtured
in ,
Speaks
in
her
silent
language
strange
To that
beyond
which
is her
kin .
Even
in
peopled
streets at
times
A
metaphysic
arm
is thrust
Through
the
partitioning
fabric
thin ,
173