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Poems. Volume 3
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Год написания книги: 2018
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TO THE COMIC SPIRIT
Sword of Common Sense!—Our surest gift: the sacred chainOf man to man: firm earth for trustIn structures vowed to permanence:—Thou guardian issue of the harvest brain!Implacable perforce of just;With that good treasure in defence,Which is our gold crushed out of joy and painSince first men planted foot and hand was king:Bright, nimble of the marrow-nerveTo wield thy double edge, retortOr hold the deadlier reserve,And through thy victim’s weapon sting:Thine is the service, thine the sportThis shifty heart of ours to huntAcross its webs and round the many a ringWhere fox it is, or snake, or mingled seedsOccasion heats to shape, or the poor smokeStruck from a puff-ball, or the troughster’s grunt;—Once lion of our desert’s trodden weeds;And but for thy straight finger at the yoke,Again to be the lordly paw,Naming his appetites his needs,Behind a decorative cloak:Thou, of the highest, the unwritten LawWe read upon that building’s architraveIn the mind’s firmament, by men upraisedWith sweat of blood when they had quitted caveFor fellowship, and rearward looked amazed,Where the prime motive gapes a lurid jaw,Thou, soul of wakened heads, art armed to warn,Restrain, lest we backslide on whence we sprang,Scarce better than our dwarf beginning shoot,Of every gathered pearl and blossom shorn;Through thee, in novel wiles to win disguise,Seen are the pits of the disruptor, seenHis rebel agitation at our root:Thou hast him out of hawking eyes;Nor ever morning of the clangYoung Echo sped on hill from hornIn forest blown when scent was keenOff earthy dews besprinkling bladesOf covert grass more merrily rangThe yelp of chase down alleys green,Forth of the headlong-pouring glades,Over the dappled fallows wild away,Than thy fine unaccented scornAt sight of man’s old secret brute,Devout for pasture on his prey,Advancing, yawning to devour;With step of deer, with voice of flute,Haply with visage of the lily flower.Let the cock crow and ruddy mornHis handmaiden appear! Youth claims his hour.The generously ludicrousEspouses it. But see we sons of day,Off whom Life leans for guidance in our fight,Accept the throb for lord of us;For lord, for the main central lightThat gives direction, not the eclipse;Or dost thou look where niggard Age,Demanding reverence for wrinkles, whipsA tumbled top to grind a wolf’s worn tooth;—Hoar despot on our final stage,In dotage of a stunted Youth;—Or it may be some venerable sage,Not having thee awake in him, compactOf wisdom else, the breast’s old tempter trips;Or see we ceremonial state,Robing the gilded beast, exactAbjection, while the crackskull name of FateIs used to stamp and hallow printed fact;A cruel corner lengthens up thy lips;These are thy game wherever men engage:These and, majestic in a borrowed shape,The major and the minor potentate,Creative of their various ape;—The tiptoe mortals triumphing to writeUpon a perishable pageAn inch above their fellows’ height;—The criers of foregone wisdom, who imposeIts slough on live conditions, much for the greedOf our first hungry figure wide agape;—Call up thy hounds of laughter to their run.These, that would have men still of men be foes,Eternal fox to prowl and pike to feed;Would keep our life the whirly poolOf turbid stuff dishonouring History;The herd the drover’s herd, the fool the fool,Ourself our slavish self’s infernal sun:These are the children of the heart untaughtBy thy quick founts to beat abroad, by theeUntamed to tone its passions under thought,The rich humaneness reading in thy fun.Of them a world of coltish heels for schoolWe have; a world with driving wrecks bestrewn.’Tis written of the Gods of human mould,Those Nectar Gods, of glorious stature hewnTo quicken hymns, that they did hear, incensed,Satiric comments overbold,From one whose part was by decreeThe jester’s; but they boiled to feel him bite.Better for them had they with Reason fencedOr smiled corrected! They in the great Gods’ mightTheir prober crushed, as fingers flea.Crumbled Olympus when the sovereign sireHis fatal kick to Momus gave, albeitMen could behold the sacred Mount aspire,The Satirist pass by on limping feet.Those Gods who saw the ejected laugh alightBelow had then their last of airy glee;They in the cup sought Laughter’s drownèd sprite,Fed to dire fatness off uncurbed conceit.Eyes under saw them waddle on their Mount,And drew them down; to flattest earth they rolled.This know we veritable. O Sage of Mirth!Can it be true, the story men recountOf the fall’n plight of the great Gods on earth?How they being deathless, though of human mould,With human cravings, undecaying frames,Must labour for subsistence; are a bandWhom a loose-cheeked, wide-lipped gay cripple leadsAt haunts of holiday on summer sand:And lightly he will hint to one that heedsNames in pained designation of them, namesEnsphered on blue skies and on black, which twirlOur hearing madly from our seeing dazed,Add Bacchus unto both; and he entreats(His baby dimples in maternal chapsRunning wild labyrinths of line and curl)Compassion for his masterful Trombone,Whose thunder is the brass of how he blazedOf old: for him of the mountain-muscle feats,Who guts a drum to fetch a snappish groan:For his fierce bugler horning onset, whomA truncheon-battered helmet caps . . .The creature is of earnest mienTo plead a sorrow darker than the tomb.His Harp and Triangle, in tone subdued,He names; they are a rayless red and white;The dawn-hued libertine, the gibbous prude.And, if we recognize his Tambourine,He asks; exhausted names her: she has becomeA globe in cupolas; the blowziest queenOf overflowing dome on dome;Redundancy contending with the tight,Leaping the dam! He fondly calls, his girl,The buxom tripper with the goblet-smile,Refreshful. O but now his brows are dun,Bunched are his lips, as when distilling guile,To drop his venomous: the Dame of dames,Flower of the world, that honey one,She of the earthly rose in the sea-pearl,To whom the world ran ocean for her kiss;He names her, as a worshipper he names,And indicates with a contemptuous thumb.The lady meanwhile lures the mob, alikeOgles the bursters of the horn and drum.Curtain her close! her open armsHave suckers for beholders: she to this?For that she could not, save in fury, hearA sharp corrective utterance flickHer idle manners, for the laugh to strikeBeauty so breeding beauty, without peerAbove the snows, among the flowers? She reapsThis mouldy garner of the fatal kick?Gross with the sacrifice of Circe-swarms,Astarte of vile sweets that slay, malign,From Greek resplendent to Phoenician foul,The trader in attractions sinks, all brineTo thoughts of taste; is ’t love?—bark, dog! hoot, owl!And she is blushless: ancient worship weeps.Suicide Graces dangle down the charmsSprawling like gourds on outer garden-heaps.She stands in her unholy oily leerA statue losing feature, weather-sickMid draggled creepers of twined ivy sere.The curtain cried for magnifies to see!—We cannot quench our one corrupting glance:The vision of the rumour will not flee.Doth the Boy own such Mother?—shoot his dartTo bring her, countless as the crested deeps,Her subjects of the uncorrected heart?False is that vision, shrieks the devotee;Incredible, we echo; and anewLike a far growling lightning-cloud it leaps.Low humourist this leader seems; perchancePitched from his University career,Adept at classic fooling. Yet of mouldHuman those Gods were: deathless too:On high they not as meditatives paced:Prodigiously they did the deeds of flesh:Descending, they would touch the lowest here:And she, that lighted form of blue and gold,Whom the seas gave, all earth, all earth embraced;Exulting in the great hauls of her mesh;Desired and hated, desperately dear;Most human of them was. No more pursue!Enough that the black story can be told.It preaches to the eminently placed:For whom disastrous wreckage is nigh due,Paints omen. Truly they our throbber had;The passions plumping, passions playing leech,Cunning to trick us for the day’s good cheer.Our uncorrected human heart will swellTo notions monstrous, doings madAs billows on a foam-lashed beach;Borne on the tides of alternating heats,Will drug the brain, will doom the soul as well;Call the closed mouth of that harsh final PowerTo speak in judgement: Nemesis, the fell:Of those bright Gods assembled, offspring sour;The last surviving on the upper seats;As with men Reason when their hearts rebel.Ah, what a fruitless breeder is this heart,Full of the mingled seeds, each eating each.Not wiser of our mark than at the start,It surges like the wrath-faced father SeaTo countering winds; a force blind-eyed,On endless rounds of aimless reach;Emotion for the source of pride,The grounds of faith in fixityAbove our flesh; its cravings urging speech,Inspiring prayer; by turns a lumpSwung on a time-piece, and by turnsA quivering energy to jumpFor seats angelical: it shrinks, it yearns,Loves, loathes; is flame or cinders; lastly cloudCapping a sullen crater: and mankindWe see cloud-capped, an army of the dark,Because of thy straight leadership declined;At heels of this or that delusive spark:Now when the multitudinous races pressElbow to elbow hourly more,A thickened host; when now we hear aloudLife for the very life imploreA signal of a visioned mark;Light of the mind, the mind’s discourse,The rational in graciousness,Thee by acknowledgement enthroned,To tame and lead that blind-eyed forceIn harmony of harness with the crowd,For payment of their dues; as yet disowned,Save where some dutiful lone creature, vowedTo holy work, deems it the heart’s intent;Or where a silken circle views it cowled,The seeming figure of concordance, bentOn satiating tyrant lustOr barren fits of sentiment.Thou wilt not have our paths befouledBy simulation; are we vile to view,The heavens shall see us clean of our own dust,Beneath thy breezy flitting wing:They make their mirror upon faces true;And where they win reflection, lucid heaveThe under tides of this hot heart seen through.Beneficently wilt thou clipAll oversteppings of the plumed,The puffed, and bid the masker strip,And into the crowned windbag thrust,Tearing the mortal from the vital thing,A lightning o’er the half-illumed,Who to base brute-dominion cleave,Yet mark effects, and shun the flash,Till their drowsed wits a beam conceive,To spy a wound without a gash,The magic in a turn of wrist,And how are wedded heart and head regaledWhen Wit o’er Folly blows the mort,And their high note of union spreadsWide from the timely word with conquest charged;Victorious laughter, of no loud report,If heard; derision as divinely veiledAs terrible Immortals in rose-mist,Given to the vision of arrested men:Whereat they feel within them weaveCommunity its closer threads,And are to our fraternal state enlarged;Like warm fresh blood is their enlivened ken:They learn that thou art not of alien sort,Speaking the tongue by vipers hissed,Or of the frosty heights unsealed,Or of the vain who simple speech distort,Or of the vapours pointing on to noughtAlong cold skies; though sharp and high thy pitch;As when sole homeward the belated treads,And hears aloft a clamour wailed,That once had seemed the broomstick witchHorridly violating cloud for drought:He, from the rub of minds dispersing fears,Hears migrants marshalling their midnight train;Homeliest order in black sky appears,Not less than in the lighted village steads.So do those half-illumed wax clear to shareA cry that is our common voice; the noteOf fellowship upon a loftier plane,Above embattled castle-wall and moat;And toning drops as from pure heaven it sheds.So thou for washing a phantasmal air,For thy sweet singing keynote of the wise,Laughter—the joy of Reason seeing fadeObstruction into Earth’s renewing beds,Beneath the stroke of her good servant’s blade—Thenceforth art as their earth-star hailed;Gain of the years, conjunction’s prize.The greater heart in thy appeal to headsThey see, thou Captain of our civil Fort!By more elusive savages assailedOn each ascending stage; untiredBoth inner foe and outer to cut short,And blow to chaff pretenders void of grist:Showing old tiger’s claws, old crocodile’sYard-grin of eager grinders, slim to sight,Like forms in running water, oft when smiles,When pearly tears, when fluent lips delight:But never with the slayer’s malice fired:As little as informs an infant’s fistClenched at the sneeze! Thou wouldst but have us beGood sons of mother soil, whereby to growBranching on fairer skies, one stately tree;Broad of the tilth for flowering at the Court:Which is the tree bound fast to wave its tress;Of strength controlled sheer beauty to bestow.Ambrosial heights of possible acquist,Where souls of men with soul of man consort,And all look higher to new lovelinessBegotten of the look: thy mark is there;While on our temporal ground alive,Rightly though fearfully thou wieldest swordOf finer temper now a numbered learnThat they resisting thee themselves resist;And not thy bigger joy to smite and drive,Prompt the dense herd to butt, and set the snareWitching them into pitfalls for hoarse shouts.More now, and hourly more, and of the LordThou lead’st to, doth this rebel heart discern,When pinched ascetic and red sensualistAlternately recurrent freeze or burn,And of its old religions it has doubts.It fears thee less when thou hast shown it bare;Less hates, part understands, nor much resents,When the prized objects it has raised for prayer,For fitful prayer;—repentance dreading fire,Impelled by aches; the blindness which repentsLike the poor trampled worm that writhes in mire;—Are sounded by thee, and thou darest probeOld institutions and establishments,Once fortresses against the floods of sin,For what their worth; and questioningly prodFor why they stand upon a racing globe,Impeding blocks, less useful than the clod;Their angel out of them, a demon in.This half-enlightened heart, still doomed to fret,To hurl at vanities, to drift in shameOf gain or loss, bewailing the sure rod,Shall of predestination wed thee yet.Something it gathers of what things should dropAt entrance on new times; of how thrice broadThe world of minds communicative; howA straggling Nature classed in school, and scoredWith stripes admonishing, may yield to ploughFruitfullest furrows, nor for waxing tameBe feeble on an Earth whose gentler cropIs its most living, in the mind that steers,By Reason led, her way of tree and flame,Beyond the genuflexions and the tears;Upon an Earth that cannot stop,Where upward is the visible aim,And ever we espy the greater God,For simple pointing at a good adored:Proof of the closer neighbourhood. Head on,Sword of the many, light of the few! untwistOr cut our tangles till fair space is wonBeyond a briared wood of austere brow,Believed of discord by thy timely wordAt intervals refreshing life: for thouArt verify Keeper of the Muse’s Key;Thyself no vacant melodist;On lower land elective even as she;Holding, as she, all dissonance abhorred;Advising to her measured steps in flow;And teaching how for being subjected freePast thought of freedom we may come to knowThe music of the meaning of Accord.YOUTH IN MEMORY
Days, when the ball of our visionHad eagles that flew unabashed to sun;When the grasp on the bow was decision,And arrow and hand and eye were one;When the Pleasures, like waves to a swimmer,Came heaving for rapture ahead!—Invoke them, they dwindle, they glimmerAs lights over mounds of the dead.Behold the winged Olympus, off the mead,With thunder of wide pinions, lightning speed,Wafting the shepherd-boy through ether clear,To bear the golden nectar-cup.So flies desire at view of its delight,When the young heart is tiptoe perched on sight.We meanwhile who in hues of the sick yearThe Spring-time paint to prick us for our lost,Mount but the fatal half way up—Whereon shut eyes! This is decreed,For Age that would to youthful heavens ascend,By passion for the arms’ possession tossed,It falls the way of sighs and hath their end;A spark gone out to more sepulchral night.Good if the arrowy eagle of the heightBe then the little bird that hops to feed.Lame falls the cry to kindle daysOf radiant orb and daring gaze.It does but clank our mortal chain.For Earth reads through her felon oldThe many-numbered of her fold,Who forward tottering backward strain,And would be thieves of treasure spent,With their grey season soured.She could write out their history in their thirstTo have again the much devoured,And be the bud at burst;In honey fancy join the flow,Where Youth swims on as once they went,All choiric for spontaneous gleeOf active eager lungs and thews;They now bared roots beside the river bent;Whose privilege themselves to see;Their place in yonder tideway know;The current glass peruse;The depths intently sound;And sapped by each returning floodAccept for monitory nourishmentThose worn roped features under crust of mud,Reflected in the silvery smooth around:Not less the branching and high singing tree,A home of nests, a landmark and a tent,Until their hour for losing hold on ground.Even such good harvest of the things that fleeEarth offers her subjected, and they chooseRather of Bacchic Youth one beam to drink,And warm slow marrow with the sensual wink.So block they at her source the Mother of the Muse.Who cheerfully the little bird becomes,Without a fall, and pipes for peck at crumbs,May have her dolings to the lightest touch;As where some cripple muses by his crutch,Unwitting that the spirit in him sings:‘When I had legs, then had I wings,As good as any born of eggs,To feed on all aërial things,When I had legs!’And if not to embrace he sighs,She gives him breath of Youth awhile,Perspective of a breezy mile,Companionable hedgeways, lifting skies;Scenes where his nested dreams upon their hoardBrooded, or up to empyrean soared:Enough to link him with a dotted line.But cravings for an eagle’s flight,To top white peaks and serve wild wineAmong the rosy undecayed,Bring only flash of shadeFrom her full throbbing breast of day in night.By what they crave are they betrayed:And cavernous is that young dragon’s jaw,Crimson for all the fiery reptile sawIn time now coveted, for teeth to flay,Once more consume, were Life recurrent May.They to their moment of drawn breath,Which is the life that makes the death,The death that makes ethereal life would bind:The death that breeds the spectre do they find.Darkness is wedded and the waste regretsBeating as dead leaves on a fitful gust,By souls no longer dowered to climbBeneath their pack of dust,Whom envy of a lustrous prime,Eclipsed while yet invoked, besets,And dooms to sink and water sable flowers,That never gladdened eye or loaded bee.Strain we the arms for Memory’s hours,We are the seized Persephone.Responsive never to the soft desireFor one prized tune is this our chord of life.’Tis clipped to deadness with a wanton knife,In wishes that for ecstasies aspire.Yet have we glad companionship of Youth,Elysian meadows for the mind,Dare we to face deeds done, and in our tombFilled with the parti-coloured bloomOf loved and hated, grasp all human truthSowed by us down the mazy paths behind.To feel that heaven must we that hell sound through:Whence comes a line of continuity,That brings our middle station into view,Between those poles; a novel Earth we see,In likeness of us, made of banned and blest;The sower’s bed, but not the reaper’s rest:An Earth alive with meanings, wherein meetBuried, and breathing, and to be.Then of the junction of the three,Even as a heart in brain, full sweetMay sense of soul, the sum of music, beat.Only the soul can walk the dusty trackWhere hangs our flowering under vapours black,And bear to see how these pervade, obscure,Quench recollection of a spacious pure.They take phantasmal forms, divide, convolve,Hard at each other point and gape,Horrible ghosts! in agony dissolve,To reappear with one they drapeFor criminal, and, Father! shrieking name,Who such distorted issue did beget.Accept them, them and him, though hiss thy sweatOff brow on breast, whose furnace flameHas eaten, and old Self consumes.Out of the purification will they leap,Thee renovating while new light illumesThe dusky web of evil, known as pain,That heavily up healthward mounts the steep;Our fleshly road to beacon-fire of brain:Midway the tameless oceanic bruteBelow, whose heave is topped with foam for fruit,And the fair heaven reflecting inner peaceOn righteous warfare, that asks not to cease.Forth of such passage through black fire we winClear hearing of the simple lute,Whereon, and not on other, Memory playsFor them who can in quietness receiveHer restorative airs: a ditty thinAs note of hedgerow bird in ear of eve,Or wave at ebb, the shallow catching raysOn a transparent sheet, where curves a glassTo truer heavens than when the breaker neighsLoud at the plunge for bubbly wreck in roar.Solidity and bulk and martial brass,Once tyrants of the senses, faintly scoreA mark on pebbled sand or fluid slime,While present in the spirit, vital there,Are things that seemed the phantoms of their time;Eternal as the recurrent cloud, as airImperative, refreshful as dawn-dew.Some evanescent hand on vapour scrawledHistoric of the soul, and heats anewIts coloured lines where deeds of flesh stand bald.True of the man, and of mankind ’tis true,Did we stout battle with the Shade, Despair,Our cowardice, it blooms; or haply warredAgainst the primal beast in us, and flung;Or cleaving mists of Sorrow, left it starredAbove self-pity slain: or it was PrayerFirst taken for Life’s cleanser; or the tongueSpake for the world against this heart; or ringsOld laughter, from the founts of wisdom sprung;Or clap of wing of joy, that was a throbFrom breast of Earth, and did no creature rob:These quickening live. But deepest at her springs,Most filial, is an eye to love her young.And had we it, to see with it, aliveIs our lost garden, flower, bird and hive.Blood of her blood, aim of her aim, are thenThe green-robed and grey-crested sons of men:She tributary to her aged restoresThe living in the dead; she will inspireFaith homelier than on the Yonder shores,Abhorring these as mire,Uncertain steps, in dimness gropes,With mortal tremours pricking hopes,And, by the final Bacchic of the lustsPropelled, the Bacchic of the spirit trusts:A fervour drunk from mystic hierophants;Not utterly misled, though blindly led,Led round fermenting eddies. Faith she plantsIn her own firmness as our midway road:Which rightly Youth has read, though blindly read;Her essence reading in her toothsome goad;Spur of bright dreams experience disenchants.But love we well the young, her road midwayThe darknesses runs consecrated clay.Despite our feeble hold on this green home,And the vast outer strangeness void of dome,Shall we be with them, of them, taught to feel,Up to the moment of our prostrate fall,The life they deem voluptuously realIs more than empty echo of a call,Or shadow of a shade, or swing of tides;As brooding upon age, when veins congeal,Grey palsy nods to think. With us for guides,Another step above the animal,To views in Alpine thought are they helped on.Good if so far we live in them when gone!And there the arrowy eagle of the heightBecomes the little bird that hops to feed,Glad of a crumb, for tempered appetiteTo make it wholesome blood and fruitful seed.Then Memory strikes on no slack string,Nor sectional will varied Life appear:Perforce of soul discerned in mind, we hearEarth with her Onward chime, with Winter Spring.And ours the mellow note, while sharing joysNo more subjecting mortals who have learntTo build for happiness on equipoise,The Pleasures read in sparks of substance burnt;Know in our seasons an integral wheel,That rolls us to a mark may yet be willed.This, the truistic rubbish under heelOf all the world, we peck at and are filled.PENETRATION AND TRUST
ISleek as a lizard at round of a stone,The look of her heart slipped out and in.Sweet on her lord her soft eyes shone,As innocents clear of a shade of sin.IIHe laid a finger under her chin,His arm for her girdle at waist was thrown:Now, what will happen and who will win,With me in the fight and my lady lone?IIIHe clasped her, clasping a shape of stone;Was fire on her eyes till they let him in.Her breast to a God of the daybeams shone,And never a corner for serpent sin.IVTranced she stood, with a chattering chin;Her shrunken form at his feet was thrown:At home to the death my lord shall win,When it is no tyrant who leaves me lone!NIGHT OF FROST IN MAY
With splendour of a silver day,A frosted night had opened May:And on that plumed and armoured night,As one close temple hove our wood,Its border leafage virgin white.Remote down air an owl hallooed.The black twig dropped without a twirl;The bud in jewelled grasp was nipped;The brown leaf cracked a scorching curl;A crystal off the green leaf slipped.Across the tracks of rimy tan,Some busy thread at whiles would shoot;A limping minnow-rillet ran,To hang upon an icy foot.In this shrill hush of quietude,The ear conceived a severing cry.Almost it let the sound elude,When chuckles three, a warble shy,From hazels of the garden came,Near by the crimson-windowed farm.They laid the trance on breath and frame,A prelude of the passion-charm.Then soon was heard, not sooner heardThan answered, doubled, trebled, more,Voice of an Eden in the birdRenewing with his pipe of fourThe sob: a troubled Eden, richIn throb of heart: unnumbered throatsFlung upward at a fountain’s pitch,The fervour of the four long notes,That on the fountain’s pool subside,Exult and ruffle and upspring:Endless the crossing multipliedOf silver and of golden string.There chimed a bubbled underbrewWith witch-wild spray of vocal dew.It seemed a single harper sweptOur wild wood’s inner chords and wakedA spirit that for yearning achedEre men desired and joyed or wept.Or now a legion ravishingMusician rivals did uniteIn love of sweetness high to singThe subtle song that rivals light;From breast of earth to breast of sky:And they were secret, they were nigh:A hand the magic might disperse;The magic swung my universe.Yet sharpened breath forbade to dream,Where all was visionary gleam;Where Seasons, as with cymbals, clashed;And feelings, passing joy and woe,Churned, gurgled, spouted, interflashed,Nor either was the one we know:Nor pregnant of the heart containedIn us were they, that griefless plained,That plaining soared; and through the heartStruck to one note the wide apart:—A passion surgent from despair;A paining bliss in fervid cold;Off the last vital edge of air,Leap heavenward of the lofty-souled,For rapture of a wine of tears;As had a star among the spheresCaught up our earth to some mid-heightOf double life to ear and sight,She giving voice to thought that shinesKeen-brilliant of her deepest mines;While steely drips the rillet clinked,And hoar with crust the cowslip swelled.Then was the lyre of earth beheld,Then heard by me: it holds me linked;Across the years to dead-ebb shoresI stand on, my blood-thrill restores.But would I conjure into meThose issue notes, I must reviewWhat serious breath the woodland drew;The low throb of expectancy;How the white mother-muteness pressedOn leaf and meadow-herb; how shook,Nigh speech of mouth, the sparkle-crestSeen spinning on the bracken-crook.
