 | Poems by a Painter |  |
93
WINTER.
Dead asleep the old earth lies,
Happed about with mounded snow;
The wan moon low to westward dies;
The bitter night-winds shrilly blow.
With muffled beat of horses' feet,
That echo songs of long ago,
Through desert wold, through village street,
From dark to dark we onward go.
Happed about with mounded snow;
The wan moon low to westward dies;
The bitter night-winds shrilly blow.
With muffled beat of horses' feet,
That echo songs of long ago,
Through desert wold, through village street,
From dark to dark we onward go.
So toils my life from dark to dark,
Toils onward, wearily and slow;
No star above its course to mark,
Nor any haven of rest below.
As one may weep in frenzied sleep
O'er his own form in death laid low,
My heart doth tearful vigil keep
By her own grave in trancèd woe.
Toils onward, wearily and slow;
No star above its course to mark,
Nor any haven of rest below.
94
O'er his own form in death laid low,
My heart doth tearful vigil keep
By her own grave in trancèd woe.
| Poems by a Painter | |