lirik lagu donald davie - to a brother in the mystery, circa 1290
the world of god has turned its two stone faces
one my way, one yours. yet we change places
a little, slowly. after we had halved
the work between us, those grotesques i carved
there in the first bays clockwise from the door
that was such work as i got credit for
at york and beverley: th~rn~leaves twined and bent
to frame some small and human incident
domestic or of venery. each time i crossed
since thеn, however, undernеath the vast
span of our mansfield limestone, to appraise
how you cut stone, my emulous hard gaze
has got to know you as i know the stone
where none but chisels talk for us. i have grown
of my own way of thinking yet of yours
seeing your leaf~ge burgeon there by the doors
with a light that, fl!ckering, trenches the voussoir’s line;
learning your pre~harmonies, design
nourished by exuberance, and fine~drawn
severity that is tenderness, i have thought
looking at these last stalls that i have wrought
this side of the chapter’s octagon, i find
no hand but mine at work, yet mine refined
by yours, and all the difference: my motif
of foliate form, your godliness in leaf
and your last spandrel proves the debt incurred
not all on the one side. there i see a bird
pecks at your grapes, and after him a fowler
a boy with a bow. elsewhere, your eaves discover
of late blank mask~like faces. “we infect
each other then, doubtless to good effect…
and yet, take care: this cordial knack bereaves
the mind of all its sympathy with leaves
even with stone. i would not take away
from your peculiar mastery, if i say
a sort of coldness is the core of it
a sort of cruelty; that prerequisite
perhaps i rob you of, and in exchange give
what ? vulgarity’s prerogative
indulgence towards the frailties it indulges
humour called “wryness” that acknowledges
its own complicity. i can keep in mind
so much at all events can always find
fallen humanity enough, in stone
yes, in the medium ; where we cannot own
crispness, compactness, elegance, but the feature
seals it and signs it work of human nature
and fallen though redeemable. you, i fear
will find you bought humanity too dear
at the price of some light leaves, if you begin
to find your handling of them growing thin
insensitive, brittle. for the common touch
though it warms, co~rs~ns. never care so much
for leaves or people, but you care for stone
a little more. the medium is its own
thing, and not all a medium, but the stuff
of mountains; cruel, obdurate, and rough
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