 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
340
A BRUMAL RHYME.
[“There never was a truer rhyme. Let us cast nothing away, for we may live to have need of such a verse.”]
Shakspeare.
Shakspeare.
Crossing the dreary wold
Speeds by a wild, weird form—
Below is the frozen mould,
Above the blackening storm;
And, hark! a chant—while the crinkling rime,
And swaying, groaning boughs keep time.
Speeds by a wild, weird form—
Below is the frozen mould,
Above the blackening storm;
And, hark! a chant—while the crinkling rime,
And swaying, groaning boughs keep time.
The flowers are in their graves—
The leaves lie dead around,
And the silver feet of waves
Are motionless and bound:
Not a bird flaps wing on the biting gale,
And the gray oaks glitter in frosty mail.
The leaves lie dead around,
And the silver feet of waves
Are motionless and bound:
Not a bird flaps wing on the biting gale,
And the gray oaks glitter in frosty mail.
Over the wintry waste
Of many a ruined soul
Despair stalks onward, ice-encased,
While above the black clouds roll,
And mutters—“Peace is a blighted thing—
Not a bird of joy is on the wing!”
Of many a ruined soul
Despair stalks onward, ice-encased,
While above the black clouds roll,
And mutters—“Peace is a blighted thing—
Not a bird of joy is on the wing!”
No beam of hope illumes
The darkly-frowning sky—
In pale and frozen tombs
The shapes of beauty lie,
And founts where Pleasure quaffed of yore,
Congealed to marble, flow no more.
The darkly-frowning sky—
In pale and frozen tombs
The shapes of beauty lie,
And founts where Pleasure quaffed of yore,
Congealed to marble, flow no more.
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |