RAISING THE STONE

By Robert Graves

A shaft of moon from the cloud-hurried sky,

Has coursed the wide dark heath, but nowhere found

One paler patch to illumine — oats nor rye,

Chalk-pit nor waterpool nor sandy ground —

Till, checked by our thronged faces on the mound

( A wedge of whiteness ) universally

Strained backward from the task that holds us bound,

It beams on set jaw and hate-maddened eye.

The vast stone lifts, turns, topples, in its fall

Spreads death: but we who live raise a shrill chant

Of joy for sacrifice cleansing us all.

Once more we heave. Erect in earth we plant,

The interpreter of our dumb furious call,

Outraging Heaven, pointing

“I want, I want.”