The Swans

The swans float and floatAlong the moatAround the Bishop's garden,And the white clouds pushAcross a blue skyWith edges that seem to draw in and harden.

Two slim men of white bronzeBeat each with a hammer on the end of a rodThe hours of God.Striking a bell,They do it well.And the echoes jump, and tinkle, and swellIn the Cathedral's carved stone polygons.

The swans floatAbout the moat,And another swan sits still in the airAbove the old inn.He gazes into the streetAnd swims the cold and the heat,He has always been there,At least so say the cobbles in the square.They listen to the beatOf the hammered bell,And think of the feetWhich beat upon their tops;But what they think they do not tell.

And the swans who floatUp and down the moatGobble the bread the Bishop feeds them.The slim bronze men beat the hour again,But only the gargoyles up in the hard blue air heed them.

When the Bishop says a prayer,And the choir sing "Amen,"The hammers break in on them there:Clang! Clang! Beware! Beware!The carved swan looks down at the passing men,And the cobbles wink: "An hour has gone again."But the people kneeling before the Bishop's chairForget the passing over the cobbles in the square.

An hour of day and an hour of night,And the clouds float away in a red-splashed light,The sun, quotha? or white, whiteSmoke with fire all alight.

An old roof crashing on a Bishop's tomb,Swarms of men with a thirst for room,And the footsteps blur to a shower, shower, shower,Of men passing—passing—every hour,With arms of power, and legs of power,And power in their strong, hard minds.No need thenFor the slim bronze menWho beat God's hours: Prime, Tierce, None.Who wants to hear? No one.We will melt them, and mold them,And make them a stemFor a banner gorged with blood,For a blue-mouthed torch.So the men rush like clouds,They strike their iron edges on the Bishop's chairAnd fling down the lanterns by the tower stair.They rip the Bishop out of his tombAnd break the mitre off of his head."See," say they, "the man is dead;He cannot shiver or sing.We'll toss for his ring."

The cobbles see this all along the streetComing—coming—on countless feet.And the clockmen mark the hours as they go.But slow—slow—The swans floatIn the Bishop's moat.And the inn swanSits on and on,Staring before him with cold glass eyes.Only the Bishop walks serene,Pleased with his church, pleased with his house,Pleased with the sound of the hammered bell,Beating his doom.Saying "Boom! Boom! Room! Room!"He is old, and kind, and deaf, and blind,And very, very pleased with his charming moatAnd the swans which float.