Poem
The
Castle
All through that summer
at ease we lay,
And daily from the turret wall
We watched the mowers in the hay
And the enemy half a
mile away
They seemed no threat to
us at all.
For what, we thought,
had we to fear
With our arms and provender, load on load,
Our towering battlements, tier on tier,
And friendly allies drawing near
On every leafy summer
road.
Our gates were strong,
our walls were thick,
So smooth and high, no
man could win
A foothold there, no clever trick
Could take us dead or quick,
Only a bird could have
got in.
What could they offer us
for bait?
Our captain was brave
and we were true…
There was a little
private gate,
A little wicked wicket gate.
The wizened warder let them through.
Oh then our maze of tunneled stone
Grew thin and treacherous as air.
The cause was lost
without a groan,
The famous citadel overthrown,
And all its secret
galleries bare.
How can this shameful
tale be told?
I will maintain until my death
We could do nothing,
being sold:
Our only enemy was gold,
And we had no arms to
fight it with
Edwin
Muir (1887-1959) was a renowned Scottish poet, novelist, translator and critic.
He was remembered for his vivid poetry. He began writing poetry at a relatively
old age, and over the course of several years worked out an individual,
philosophical style for which he gained recognition later in his life. First Poems and Chorus
of the Newly Dead contain Muir’s initial attempts. Muir’s later
collections include Variations on a Time Theme, The Narrow Place, The Voyage and Other Poems, The
Labyrinth, and One Foot in Eden.
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