This is the bricklayer; hear the thud
Of his heavy load dumped down on stone.
His lustrous bricks are brighter than blood,
His smoking mortar whiter than bone.
Set each sharp-edged, fire-bitten brick
Straight by the plumb-line's shivering length;
Make my marvelous wall so thick
Dead nor living may shake its strength.
Full as a crystal cup with drink
Is my cell with dreams, and quiet, and cool. . . .
Stop, old man! You must leave a chink;
How can I breathe? You can't, you fool!
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Comments
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Sardonic at the end; I only expected by the title that, at the end, it would be something that wasn't of bliss or anything pertaining to the notion.
This seems to be about being buried alive, perhaps from free-will and perhaps not. Seems by the ending it's a murder but really who is murdering who?
A good piece that Wylie has written here.
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