Cambridge Poets 1900–1913

Martin D . Armstrong . And hands and axe grew bloody in the glare , And gleaming sap oozed from the wounded tree , But still my body glowed exultingly Like iron in the forge, as if some rare Immortal essence from the setting sun Had made me godlike. Lonely on the hill I knew myself transfigured , and my will, Responsible to no man , urged me on While all the hosts of darkness mustered round. But when the west had smouldered into ash , The first tree swayed and snapped , and with a crash Hurled down its leafy mass and strewed the ground With splintered boughs . Seven feudal centuries Fell in that ruin ; and , it seemed , the power , Vanquished and driven from its ancestral bower , Took root in me , for to the other trees Strong and refreshed I turned . And now the gap Of lurid sky which I had opened there Grew cold and star - sown , and the keen night air Was sweet with leafage bruised and living sap . But when at last not light enough was left To labour by , I kindled logs of oak With crackling furze , and glare of flame and smoke Illumined my midnight smithy . So I cleft 14