Baby Tortoise

    You know what it is to be born alone，

    Baby tortoise！

    The first day to heave your feet little by little from

    the shell，

    Not yet awake，

    And remain lapsed¹ on earth，

    Not quite alive.

    A tiny， fragile， half-animate² bean.

    To open your tiny beak-mouth， that looks as if it would

    never open

    Like some iron door；

    To lift the upper hawk-beak from the lower base

    And reach your skinny neck

    And take your first bite at some dim bit of herbage，

    Alone， small insect，

    Tiny bright-eye，

    Slow one.

    To take your first solitary³ bite

    And move on your slow， solitary hunt.

    Your bright， dark little eye，

    Your eye of a dark disturbed night，

    Under its slow lid， tiny baby tortoise，

    So indomitable.

    No one ever heard you complain.

    You draw your head forward， slowly， from your little

    wimple

    And set forward， slow-dragging， on your four-pinned toes，

    Rowing slowly forward.

    Wither⁴ away， small bird？

    Rather like a baby working its limbs，

    Except that you make slow， ageless progress

    And a baby makes none.

    The touch of sun excites you，

    And the long ages， and the lingering chill

    Make you pause to yawn，

    Opening your impervious⁵ mouth，

    Suddenly beak-shaped， and very wide， like some suddenly

    gaping⁶ pincers；

    Soft red tongue， and hard thin gums，

    Then close the wedge of your little mountain front，

    Your face， baby tortoise.

    Do you wonder at the world， as slowly you turn your head

    in its wimple

    And look with laconic⁷， black eyes？

    Or is sleep coming over you again，

    The non-life？

    You are so hard to wake.

    Are you able to wonder？

    Or is it just your indomitable will and pride of the

    first life

    Looking round

    And slowly pitching itself against the inertia⁸

    Which had seemed invincible⁹？

    The vast inanimate，

    And the fine brilliance¹⁰ of your so tiny eye，

    Challenger.

    Nay¹¹， tiny shell-bird.

    What a huge vast inanimate it is， that you must row

    against，

    What an incalculable inertia.

    Challenger，

    Little Ulysses， fore-runner，

    No bigger than my thumb-nail，

    Buon viaggio.

    All animate creation on your shoulder，

    Set forth¹²， little Titan， under your battle-shield.

    The ponderous¹³， preponderate¹⁴，

    Inanimate universe；

    And you are slowly moving， pioneer， you alone.

    How vivid your travelling seems now， in the troubled

    sunshine，

    Stoic¹⁵， Ulyssean atom；

    Suddenly hasty， reckless， on high toes.

    Voiceless little bird，

    Resting your head half out of your wimple

    In the slow dignity of your eternal pause.

    Alone， with no sense of being alone，

    And hence six times more solitary；

    Fulfilled of the slow passion of pitching through

    immemorial ages

    Your little round house in the midst of chaos¹⁶.

    Over the garden earth，

    Small bird，

    Over the edge of all things.

    Traveller，

    With your tail tucked a little on one side

    Like a gentleman in a long-skirted coat.

    All life carried on your shoulder，

    Invincible fore-runner.