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 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
IV.
Thou sayest, “The skies are dark above my head,
Destroying waves break loud upon my strand,
Wild winds and ruining blight infest my land:
'T is Summer still, but Summer flowers lie shed
On wind-scourged paths; my song-birds all are dead:
Only the oldest trees may hope to stand
Against this mad wind's devastating hand,
There will I house me till its wrath be sped.”
Destroying waves break loud upon my strand,
Wild winds and ruining blight infest my land:
'T is Summer still, but Summer flowers lie shed
On wind-scourged paths; my song-birds all are dead:
Only the oldest trees may hope to stand
Against this mad wind's devastating hand,
There will I house me till its wrath be sped.”
Thou fool! Thou shalt awake some day to see
Thine oldest trees crash round thee, every one;
To meet no darkness, but the insatiate sun,
A beast with eyes of flame, and thee for prey;
And slight, indeed, on that disastrous day,
Will seem this dead day's harsh calamity.
Thine oldest trees crash round thee, every one;
To meet no darkness, but the insatiate sun,
A beast with eyes of flame, and thee for prey;
And slight, indeed, on that disastrous day,
Will seem this dead day's harsh calamity.
| The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | |