 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
183
PINES
Funereal pines, your garniture of woe,
Your sable plumes, your listless haggard air,
Were ye sincere, ye would, methinks, forego.
Your sable plumes, your listless haggard air,
Were ye sincere, ye would, methinks, forego.
Yon lively larch is delicately fair;
She shames your sadness down the woodland glade,
Yet hath as sharp a servitude to bear;
She shames your sadness down the woodland glade,
Yet hath as sharp a servitude to bear;
Who would bethink him, in your dismal shade,
So true a heart beat 'neath your rugged rind,
And merriest then, when men are most afraid?
So true a heart beat 'neath your rugged rind,
And merriest then, when men are most afraid?
Drinking the harsh roar of the uneasy wind,
Ye triumph, when his stormy clarions blow
To battle, and the slow rain weeps behind.
Ye triumph, when his stormy clarions blow
To battle, and the slow rain weeps behind.
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |