Venerable Mother Toothache Climb down from the white battlements, Stop twisting in your yellow fingers The fourfold rope of nerves; And to-morrow I will give you a tot of whisky To hold in your cupped hands, A garland of anise-flowers, And three cloves like nails. And tell the attendant gnomes It is time to knock off now, To shoulder their little pick-axes, Their cold-chisels and drills. And you may mount by a silver ladder Into the sky, to grind In the cracked polished mortar Of the hollow moon.
By the lapse of warm waters, And the poppies nodding like red coals, The paths on the granite mountains, And the plantation of my dreams.
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Invocation by a Certain John Heath-Stubbs
Date: 2004-06-17 12:05 pm (UTC)Climb down from the white battlements,
Stop twisting in your yellow fingers
The fourfold rope of nerves;
And to-morrow I will give you a tot of whisky
To hold in your cupped hands,
A garland of anise-flowers,
And three cloves like nails.
And tell the attendant gnomes
It is time to knock off now,
To shoulder their little pick-axes,
Their cold-chisels and drills.
And you may mount by a silver ladder
Into the sky, to grind
In the cracked polished mortar
Of the hollow moon.
By the lapse of warm waters,
And the poppies nodding like red coals,
The paths on the granite mountains,
And the plantation of my dreams.