 | Mansoul or The Riddle of the World |  |
Grief is in Fáery Land, góod King Oberon passed.
Drooping along the Kings highways, in rime-dight
Tall Autumn grass; elves to his bearing forth,
Lo, now lamenting wend, in sad Moonlight.
186
Tall Autumn grass; elves to his bearing forth,
Lo, now lamenting wend, in sad Moonlight.
Standing in théir wan eyes, tears' bitter drops;
Elf-maidens, websters, wrought that long death-night;
To mantles weave of grey, of wild wool-flocs:
Gainst morrows break, for all high magistrates.
Elf-maidens, websters, wrought that long death-night;
To mantles weave of grey, of wild wool-flocs:
Gainst morrows break, for all high magistrates.
Who would not rue? (Falls Winter in all hearts;)
With them that sorrowing bring the dead King forth.
Grave Princes of the Kingdom, underset,
By turns, their zealous shoulders to the bier.
That lately royal life, they bear to earth,
That never more may wake; a breathless corse.
With them that sorrowing bring the dead King forth.
Grave Princes of the Kingdom, underset,
By turns, their zealous shoulders to the bier.
That lately royal life, they bear to earth,
That never more may wake; a breathless corse.
They enter now a glooming silent hurst.
Trees bow their heads, and shed cold silver drops
On deep-strewed mould of Autumns leafy wrack.
Through pathless brake, through thicket-fern they wade:
Where many a small wood-fowl, with startled plaint;
From shrouded spray, flits out to open light.
Trees bow their heads, and shed cold silver drops
On deep-strewed mould of Autumns leafy wrack.
Through pathless brake, through thicket-fern they wade:
Where many a small wood-fowl, with startled plaint;
From shrouded spray, flits out to open light.
A tardy Moon looks forth, with wimpled face.
Stand now who foremost mourn, in elves' long train;
Thick throngs, where reverend is set down His bier.
Ordained, the place is, of the Courts Soothsayer;
Neath wide-spread branches of an antique beech,
Tree chiefest of that grove; to lay him in
Cold clay, ere rising of the morrows Sun.
Stand now who foremost mourn, in elves' long train;
Thick throngs, where reverend is set down His bier.
187
Neath wide-spread branches of an antique beech,
Tree chiefest of that grove; to lay him in
Cold clay, ere rising of the morrows Sun.
Dun elves and grey, stern woodwards of those paths;
Kindred, woodwoses named, of mountain dwarves;
Hanged nigh upon a thorn, their mantles dofft;
With iron-shod spades and mattocks, toil and sweat;
Last dark death-womb, to ópen by Stars' light;
Of Life's All-Mother, Earth.
Kindred, woodwoses named, of mountain dwarves;
Hanged nigh upon a thorn, their mantles dofft;
With iron-shod spades and mattocks, toil and sweat;
Last dark death-womb, to ópen by Stars' light;
Of Life's All-Mother, Earth.
| Mansoul or The Riddle of the World | |