Flower o' the thorn A book of wayside verse: By John Payne |
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SUNDOWN. |
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 | Flower o' the thorn |  |
SUNDOWN.
FAR down in the West, in the ultimate distance,
The wheels of the sun-chariot, slackening, creep;
The day, over-drowsy to dream of resistance,
Itself to its death,
As a child that is tired of the toil of existence,
Resigneth. The breath
Of the breeze as a lullaby is for the senses;
Time's ocean of motion, it seems, in suspense is;
All speaketh of sleep.
The wheels of the sun-chariot, slackening, creep;
The day, over-drowsy to dream of resistance,
Itself to its death,
As a child that is tired of the toil of existence,
Resigneth. The breath
Of the breeze as a lullaby is for the senses;
Time's ocean of motion, it seems, in suspense is;
All speaketh of sleep.
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What marvel is this from the sky-marge that sallies,
That veers like a vulture and broods like a dove
Of celestial delight o'er the hills and the valleys?
With pinions world-wide,
It hovers and hangs o'er the streets and the alleys,
From side unto side,
To glory transmuting the grimy old city,
A splendour of tender compassion and pity,
Of rapture and love.
That veers like a vulture and broods like a dove
Of celestial delight o'er the hills and the valleys?
With pinions world-wide,
It hovers and hangs o'er the streets and the alleys,
From side unto side,
To glory transmuting the grimy old city,
A splendour of tender compassion and pity,
Of rapture and love.
And see, broken open, from story to story,
Is Heaven, to the deeps of the infinite blue;
Aswoon in the sunsetting halo, the hoary
Old houses repose:
Their smoke to a sorcery, their grime to a glory
Transfigured, each glows,
Regenerate grown, 'neath the radiance golden,
The lowly made holy, the homely and olden
Made lovesome and new.
Is Heaven, to the deeps of the infinite blue;
Aswoon in the sunsetting halo, the hoary
Old houses repose:
Their smoke to a sorcery, their grime to a glory
Transfigured, each glows,
Regenerate grown, 'neath the radiance golden,
The lowly made holy, the homely and olden
Made lovesome and new.
The dreams of all poets, who sought have to follow
Their fancies to spheres which no mortal may reach,
Are pictured and painted in Heaven, o'er each hollow
And height of the West;
Each cloud-wreath, that waits on the car of Apollo,
In jewels is drest;
This chrysoprase-green, that pearl-grey, jacinth-yellow,
Star-blue is; each hue is unlike to its fellow,
Each fairer than each.
Their fancies to spheres which no mortal may reach,
Are pictured and painted in Heaven, o'er each hollow
And height of the West;
Each cloud-wreath, that waits on the car of Apollo,
In jewels is drest;
This chrysoprase-green, that pearl-grey, jacinth-yellow,
Star-blue is; each hue is unlike to its fellow,
Each fairer than each.
Each moment the face of the fantasy changes,
New flower-tides o'erflooding its opal and rose;
Each cloud-burst of colour more sweet and more strange is
Than what was before.
As pageant on pageant there rises and ranges,
It is as there bore
Sleep's heralds her standards, through Heaven far-flaming,
Deep-coloured, to dullard and whole-wit proclaiming
The hour of repose.
New flower-tides o'erflooding its opal and rose;
Each cloud-burst of colour more sweet and more strange is
Than what was before.
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It is as there bore
Sleep's heralds her standards, through Heaven far-flaming,
Deep-coloured, to dullard and whole-wit proclaiming
The hour of repose.
| Flower o' the thorn | |