Tycho, a mountain in the moon
Has long ago put out his fires –
Or so astronomers avow –
And dark the crater, and cold, yet now
About my hand, about the quires
Where this night through my hand has strewn
Words unavailing, frustrate phrases,
Tycho’s malignant bale-fire blazes.
A licking frost, a lambent chill,
It lights the unkindled sacrifice
And plays about me to benumb.
The words I wait for will not come,
And cowering down, as under ice
Dumb water cowers, my lost thought still
Shows me a tree upon the wold,
That stands, and cracks its heart for cold.
(From, Sylvia Townsend Warner: Selected Poems, edited by Claire Harman, Manchester: Carcanet)
I like the sounds and the rhythms of this poem very much. The poet identifies the cold, extinct volcano with her lack of inspiration and through that discovers the ‘tree upon the wold’ and writes her poem...
And here is a close-up photo of Tycho, found on this page (which has lots more information about it):