The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan In Two Volumes. With a Portrait |
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 | The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan |  |
I.
How long he lay in that strange trance of night
Might Balder never know;
Silently fell the waifs of stainless white,
And deeper grew the snow.
Might Balder never know;
Silently fell the waifs of stainless white,
And deeper grew the snow.
While out of heaven the falling flakes were shed,
The dark hours grew to days;
And round and round a red moon overhead
Went circling without rays.
The dark hours grew to days;
And round and round a red moon overhead
Went circling without rays.
Therewere no stars, only that cheerless thing
Treading the wintry round;
There was no light, save snow-flowers glimmering
Without a sound.
Treading the wintry round;
There was no light, save snow-flowers glimmering
Without a sound.
Darkness of doom is shed on Balder's eyes,
But whiteness shrouds the wold;
And still at Balder's head the phantom lies
Silent and calm and cold.
But whiteness shrouds the wold;
And still at Balder's head the phantom lies
Silent and calm and cold.
And chill is Balder as some naked man
Made marble by the frost:
His veins are ice; upon his bosom wan
His two thin hands are crost.
Made marble by the frost:
His veins are ice; upon his bosom wan
His two thin hands are crost.
But as within some clammy wall of stone
The death-watch keeps its chime,—
The cold heart in that crouching skeleton
Ticks out the time.
The death-watch keeps its chime,—
The cold heart in that crouching skeleton
Ticks out the time.
All round, a world of snow, and snows that fall,
Flake upon flake, so white;
An empty heaven fluttering like a pall,
Lit by that one red light.
Flake upon flake, so white;
An empty heaven fluttering like a pall,
Lit by that one red light.
All round, the solemn slumber of the snow,
No sigh, no stir, no breath,—
But in the midst, scarce audible, slow, low,
The throbbing pulse of Death. . . .
No sigh, no stir, no breath,—
But in the midst, scarce audible, slow, low,
The throbbing pulse of Death. . . .
The hours creep on, the dreary days are shed,
Measured by that slow beat;
And all the while god Balder lieth dead,
Wrapt in his winding-sheet.
Measured by that slow beat;
And all the while god Balder lieth dead,
Wrapt in his winding-sheet.
| The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan | |