Flower o' the thorn A book of wayside verse: By John Payne |
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SNOW FALLS. |
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 | Flower o' the thorn |  |
SNOW FALLS.
SNOW falls;
It flutters o'er the ways; it settles on the walls
And roofs and ridges:
To yonder birds up there,
So far aloft in air
That to our vision short they show no more than midges,
On London's giant hive down gazing from the skies,
The city must one vast grim etching seem to be,
Spread panorama-wise,
In virgin silver graven upon a ground of ebony.
It flutters o'er the ways; it settles on the walls
And roofs and ridges:
To yonder birds up there,
So far aloft in air
That to our vision short they show no more than midges,
On London's giant hive down gazing from the skies,
The city must one vast grim etching seem to be,
Spread panorama-wise,
In virgin silver graven upon a ground of ebony.
Not long
The pricked-out picture lasts. See, now, the airy throng
Of argent feathers,
Subsiding on the ways,
Sits like a silver haze
Upon the patient roads, accustomed to all weathers,
A haze that thickens fast, beneath the thronging hail,
And overcovers all with its still-starkening cloud,
Till, from a filmy veil,
Fit for a bride, it's grown a sheer sepulchral shroud.
The pricked-out picture lasts. See, now, the airy throng
Of argent feathers,
Subsiding on the ways,
Sits like a silver haze
Upon the patient roads, accustomed to all weathers,
A haze that thickens fast, beneath the thronging hail,
And overcovers all with its still-starkening cloud,
Till, from a filmy veil,
Fit for a bride, it's grown a sheer sepulchral shroud.
The hum
Of traffic fades afar and all the day is dumb.
Like showers of arrows,
Transpiercing all they meet,
The North Wind whirls the sleet.
Before their frozen flight, the world-all cowers and narrows:
All breath suspended seems beneath the grey cloud-cope.
The hunt of Life is hushed; its fields are frozen deep.
Call off the hounds of Hope!
Who knoweth when the world will wake again from the snow-sleep?
Of traffic fades afar and all the day is dumb.
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Transpiercing all they meet,
The North Wind whirls the sleet.
Before their frozen flight, the world-all cowers and narrows:
All breath suspended seems beneath the grey cloud-cope.
The hunt of Life is hushed; its fields are frozen deep.
Call off the hounds of Hope!
Who knoweth when the world will wake again from the snow-sleep?
Yet, see,
The friendly elves have woven o'er every bush and tree,
Out in my garden,
Their webs of argent lace,
Whereon frost-diamonds trace
Runes that the ravished eye bespeak of peace and pardon,
As who “In Winter's snow “should say” and cold and gloom,
“In Death, which is the term of love and joy and strife,
“Yet Beauty waits to bloom,
“Beauty, that is the flower of Truth and promise of new life.”
The friendly elves have woven o'er every bush and tree,
Out in my garden,
Their webs of argent lace,
Whereon frost-diamonds trace
Runes that the ravished eye bespeak of peace and pardon,
As who “In Winter's snow “should say” and cold and gloom,
“In Death, which is the term of love and joy and strife,
“Yet Beauty waits to bloom,
“Beauty, that is the flower of Truth and promise of new life.”
| Flower o' the thorn | |