Poems Real and Ideal | ||
154
A WINTER VISION.
I
When Winter round us throwsHis mantle of white snows
And dimmer
The fog-bound daylight grows
Nor glimmer
Is with us of red rose
Nor swimmer
Through the blue water goes,—
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II
Where are we then to findRest for the weary mind?—
No splendour
Of green hills where the wind
Wails tender
Through avenues black-pined
Can render
Our worn-out hearts resigned!
III
Where the grand sunsets redAbove the lake were shed
Till rushes
Amid the water bled
And bushes
Waved many a golden head,
Now blushes
No sky-cheek: all is dead.
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IV
Where the white lilies grewAnd harebells, dainty-blue,
And flowers
Diverse in scent and hue,
And bowers
The August sun flamed through,
And towers
Of greenery draped in dew,
V
The weary white wet snowBefore the wind doth blow
And eddy:
Homeward we have to go,
And ready
We find our books a-row;
With steady
Gaze we glance to and fro;—
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VI
And in a moment weForget the snow-clad lea:
The glory
Of Guinevere we see,
And hoary
Breakers that burst and flee,
And gory
Knights battling knee to knee.
VII
Or else in FairylandWith Spenser's self we stand,
Or follow
The pious Latian band
O'er hollow
Sea-gulfs from strand to strand:—
Apollo
Next takes us by the hand.
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VIII
Through Italy we goWith hearts and souls a-glow,—
The thunder
Of Dante's rhythmic flow
Doth sunder
The heavens with throb and throe,
And wonder
On wonder doth forthshow.
IX
With Hugo next we treadThrough streets and alleys red,—
Are taken
To haunts of the great dead;
Heart-shaken
We bow before his head
Forsaken
Full oft of those it led.
167
X
With Keats we thread the deepDream-land of love and sleep,
And fancies
Bright-winged around us leap
With glances
That make the spirit weep
And lances
That the old-world forests sweep.
XI
And Wordsworth makes the airWith mountain-sweetness fair,
And gracious
With song of rivers rare,
And spacious,—
The mountain-valleys bear
Capacious
Woods nestling everywhere.
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XII
And Shakespeare with the eyesThat saw all storms and skies
And lifted
Man heavenward in strange wise,
God-gifted
Now doth before us rise:—
Time's shifted,—
Behold, dull Winter flies!
Dec., 1881.
Poems Real and Ideal | ||