Venice masks

Saturday 15 April 2023

A song to the wind - Taliesin

Guess who is this creature 
Before us outspeeding, 
Of strength so exceeding; 
Begot ere the flood, 
Without flesh, without blood, 
Without bones, without veins, 
Without head, without foot, 
Not older or younger 
Than when he drew breath 
At earth's first beginning; 
And no design spinning 
Of fear or of death, 
Through thirst or through hunger, 
Through anger or scaith. 

Great God! when he cometh, 
How the sea foameth 
At the breath of his nostrils, 
The blast of his mouth! 
As it smites from the south 
Foameth and spumeth 
And roars on the shores! 
Now on the wold, 
And now in the wood, 
Without hand or foot 
Escaping pursuit; 
Jealous Destiny's rage 
Cannot wrinkle his age, 
Though coeval was he 
With all cycles of Time, 
Nay, still in his prime 
Ere they were beginning to be! 

All the face of the earth 
Is his mighty demesne; 
He has ne'er come to birth; 
He has never been seen, 
Yet causeth, I ween, 
Consternation and dearth! 

On the sea, on the land, 
Unviewed and unviewing, 
Pursued and pursuing, 
Yet never at hand. 
On the land, on the sea, 
Unviewing, unviewed, 
Though in sight of the Sun;
Ne'er at command, 
Howe'er he be sued! 
Indispensable, 
Incomprehensible, 
Matchless one! 

Out of four regions, 
Alone, yet in legions, 
He winneth! 
Over the seat 
Of the great, storm-blown 
Marble stone 
His journey with joy he beginneth. 
He is loud-voiced and mute 
He yields no salute; 
Vehement, bold, 
O'er the desolate wold 
He outrunneth! 

He is mute and loud-voiced; 
With bluster defying, 
O'er the half of the world 
His banner unfurled 
He is flying! 
He is good, he is evil 
Half angel, half devil; 
Manifest never, 
Hidden for ever! 

He is evil and good! 
Hither and yonder 
Intent upon plunder; 
In repairing it mindless, 
Yet, therewithal, sinless! 
He is moist, he is dry, 
He will fly 
From the glow of the sun, 
And the chill of the moon, 
Who yieldeth small worth 
Of heat for the earth; 
To profit thereby. 

The Master that made him 
Gave all things their birth 
God Himself, the Beginner 
And Ender of Earth. 
Who praise not His power 
Still strike a false string, 
Who exalt not the Father 
Shall tunelessly sing! 

Taliesin [Taliessyn] (6th century) Wales
Transalted by Alfred Perceval Graves
Source: Welsh poetry old and new, in English verse by Alfred Perceval Graves, Longmans, Green, and co., 1912

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