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A cold coming we had of it,A cold coming we had of it
A cold coming we had of it, Just the worst time of the year For a journey, and such a long journey: The ways deep and the weather sharp, The very dead of winter.’ And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory, Lying down in the melting snow. There were times we regretted The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces, And the silken girls bringing sherbet. Then the camel men cursing and grumbling And running away, and wanting their liquor and women, And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters, And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly And the villages dirty and charging high prices: A hard time we had of it. At the end we preferred to travel all night, Sleeping in snatches, With the voices singing in our ears, saying That this was all folly.
Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley, Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation; With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness, And three trees on the low sky, And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow. Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel, Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver, And feet kicking the empty wine-skins, But there was no information, and so we continued And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory.
All this was a long time ago, I remember, And I would do it again, but set down This set down This: were we led all that way for Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly, We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death, But had thought they were different; this Birth was Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death. We returned to our places, these Kingdoms, But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation, With an alien people clutching their gods. I should be glad of another death.
We had a difficult start to our journey, It was the worst time of year For such a long journey: The paths were deep and the weather harsh, In the dead of winter. And the camels were sore-footed and stubborn, Lying down in the melting snow. There were moments we wished for The summer palaces on the hills, the terraces, And the beautiful girls serving sweet drinks. Then the camel drivers cursed and complained And ran away, wanting their drinks and women, And the campfires went out, with no shelters, And the cities were hostile and the towns unwelcoming And the villages were dirty and overpriced: It was a tough time for us. In the end, we chose to travel all night, Sleeping in short bursts, With voices singing in our ears, saying That this was all foolishness.
Then at dawn we descended into a mild valley, Wet, below the snow line, smelling of plants; With a stream flowing and a water-mill breaking the darkness, And three trees against the low sky, And a white horse galloped away in the meadow. Then we reached a tavern with vine leaves over the door, Six men at an open door gambling for silver pieces, And feet kicking the empty wine skins, But there was no information, so we moved on And arrived by evening, just in time Finding the place; it was, you might say, satisfactory.
This was a long time ago, I remember, And I would do it again, but write down This written down This: were we led all that way for Birth or Death? There was certainly a Birth, We had proof and no doubt. I had seen birth and death, But thought they were different; this Birth was Hard and painful for us, like Death, our death. We returned to our homes, these Kingdoms, But no longer comfortable here, in the old order, With foreign people holding onto their gods. I would welcome another death.