 | The Collected Poems of Lord De Tabley |  |
A SONG OF THE ROLLING WIND
A song of the fields and a song of the woods,
And a song of the rolling gale;
A song for my love, and my false, false love,
To the tune of the crackling hail
In the teeth of the roaring wind.
And a song of the rolling gale;
A song for my love, and my false, false love,
To the tune of the crackling hail
In the teeth of the roaring wind.
A song of the clouds and the fallow face,
Where the wrestling leaves come down,
Of the heart that is changed, and the voice that is gone,
And the woodland withered brown
In the drift of the raving wind.
Where the wrestling leaves come down,
Of the heart that is changed, and the voice that is gone,
And the woodland withered brown
In the drift of the raving wind.
A song for me, and a song for thee,
And never a love between,
And the cold clay-couch of the patient dead
By the yew tree's inky green,
In the teeth of the rolling wind.
And never a love between,
And the cold clay-couch of the patient dead
By the yew tree's inky green,
In the teeth of the rolling wind.
484
A song for the end of our childish love,
And a sigh for the half-ebbed bowl.
A laugh of scorn for the half dead lees,
And for love that has reached no goal,
In the breath of the parching wind.
And a sigh for the half-ebbed bowl.
A laugh of scorn for the half dead lees,
And for love that has reached no goal,
In the breath of the parching wind.
A smile of tears that love should cease,
Like a child that is tired of play.
And a bitter sneer at the wretched heart,
That shifts as the aspen spray
In the beat of the blustering wind.
Like a child that is tired of play.
And a bitter sneer at the wretched heart,
That shifts as the aspen spray
In the beat of the blustering wind.
What song have I, whose lips are pale,
What voice whose eyes are brine?
God made a dream and made a lie
To ape Love's glow divine,
In the howl of the bitter wind.
What voice whose eyes are brine?
God made a dream and made a lie
To ape Love's glow divine,
In the howl of the bitter wind.
A song, a song, and get thee gone
For the night runs down with rain
My throat is dry, and my lute is broke,
And I never shall love again,
In the rush of the roaring wind.
For the night runs down with rain
My throat is dry, and my lute is broke,
And I never shall love again,
In the rush of the roaring wind.
| The Collected Poems of Lord De Tabley | |