 | The Poetical Works of John Payne |  |
229
LET others praise the May for bright and clear
And Love, that in the flower-time thrives amain:
For me, my songs shall hymn the dying year
And death, that is the salve of mortal pain.
For what is autumn but the grateful wane
Of weary summer to the sleep of snows?
And what is winter but the earth's repose,
And death the cold sweet close of some new Spring,
That folds to slumber every tired thing?
And Love, that in the flower-time thrives amain:
For me, my songs shall hymn the dying year
And death, that is the salve of mortal pain.
For what is autumn but the grateful wane
Of weary summer to the sleep of snows?
And what is winter but the earth's repose,
And death the cold sweet close of some new Spring,
That folds to slumber every tired thing?
Let others walk to hear the roundelay
Of song-birds quiring to the risen year:
For me, I love the quiet throstle's lay,
When in the woods the shredded leaves are sere
And the faint heavens are watchet in the mere.
The autumn's pale calm grey of sober peace
Is lovelier to me than the swift increase
Of colour in the spring-tide's restless air;
For my heart flowers when the boughs are bare.
Of song-birds quiring to the risen year:
For me, I love the quiet throstle's lay,
When in the woods the shredded leaves are sere
And the faint heavens are watchet in the mere.
The autumn's pale calm grey of sober peace
Is lovelier to me than the swift increase
Of colour in the spring-tide's restless air;
For my heart flowers when the boughs are bare.
If love be May, then love is nought to me;
For in my thought his sweets are sweeter far
When in the deepening twilight shadows flee,
When all delights but half unfolded are
And waste fulfilment comes not to unbar
The gates of weariness. Faint flowers are sweet
And murmured music daintily doth greet
My senses more than bolder scent or song:
I will my joys not fierce to be, but long.
For in my thought his sweets are sweeter far
When in the deepening twilight shadows flee,
When all delights but half unfolded are
And waste fulfilment comes not to unbar
The gates of weariness. Faint flowers are sweet
And murmured music daintily doth greet
My senses more than bolder scent or song:
I will my joys not fierce to be, but long.
Sweet death, if men do fear thy tender touch,
It is because they know thee not for fair,
Since that their eyes are dazzled over-much
By fierce delights of life and blinding glare
Of unenduring bliss, that throws despair
Behind it as its shadow, when the sun
Slopes through the evening and the hills are dun.
They would not call thee dark and wan and cold,
Had their faint eyes but shunned the noon's full gold.
It is because they know thee not for fair,
Since that their eyes are dazzled over-much
By fierce delights of life and blinding glare
Of unenduring bliss, that throws despair
Behind it as its shadow, when the sun
Slopes through the evening and the hills are dun.
They would not call thee dark and wan and cold,
Had their faint eyes but shunned the noon's full gold.
230
For lo! thou art not black to loving eyes,
But tender grey, not unillumed by rose
Or that pale feathery gold that on the skies
Of autumn such a sad sweet glory throws.
Though in thy shades no glare of sunlight glows,
Yet through thy dusk a tender moon of hope
Is clear, nor lacks there in the misted slope
Of thy long vistas many a helpful light,
O Death, for very piteous is thy might!
But tender grey, not unillumed by rose
Or that pale feathery gold that on the skies
Of autumn such a sad sweet glory throws.
Though in thy shades no glare of sunlight glows,
Yet through thy dusk a tender moon of hope
Is clear, nor lacks there in the misted slope
Of thy long vistas many a helpful light,
O Death, for very piteous is thy might!
Let those that love them sing of Love and May;
I give to Love full sweet another name
And with soft sighs and singings to Him pray,
And not with trumpets' silver-strong acclaim
Blazon to men his wonder-working fame:
For my Love's name is Death, and I am fain
To love the long sad years and life's kind wane;
For what is autumn but a later Spring
And what is Death but life's revesturing?
I give to Love full sweet another name
And with soft sighs and singings to Him pray,
And not with trumpets' silver-strong acclaim
Blazon to men his wonder-working fame:
For my Love's name is Death, and I am fain
To love the long sad years and life's kind wane;
For what is autumn but a later Spring
And what is Death but life's revesturing?
| The Poetical Works of John Payne | |