 | The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan |  |
II. The Light on the Snow.
O Death, Death, press thy hand so lean and bare
Upon thy beating heart!
O Death, raise up thy head and scent the air
With nostrils cold apart!
Upon thy beating heart!
O Death, raise up thy head and scent the air
With nostrils cold apart!
Awaken from thy trance, O Death, and rise,
And hearken with thine ears! . . .
Death stirs, and like a snake with glistening eyes
His luminous head uprears. . . .
And hearken with thine ears! . . .
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His luminous head uprears. . . .
Awaken! listen! Far across the night,
And down the drifts of snow,
There stirs a lonely light,—a blood-red light
That moveth to and fro.
And down the drifts of snow,
There stirs a lonely light,—a blood-red light
That moveth to and fro.
Sniall as a drop of dew, most dim to sight,
It glimmereth afar. . . .
O Death, it cometh hither,—growing bright
And luminous as a star.
It glimmereth afar. . . .
O Death, it cometh hither,—growing bright
And luminous as a star.
O Death, pale Death,
What do thine eyes behold?
What lonely star flasheth afar
Across the wintry wold?
What do thine eyes behold?
What lonely star flasheth afar
Across the wintry wold?
The world is folded in its shroud of white;
The skies are smother'd deep;
There is no lamp at all in heaven, to light
Death Balder's sleep.
The skies are smother'd deep;
There is no lamp at all in heaven, to light
Death Balder's sleep.
There is no lamp at Balder's head, no star
Outlooking from the cloud;
White is the snow-drift woven near and far,
And white is Balder's shroud.
Outlooking from the cloud;
White is the snow-drift woven near and far,
And white is Balder's shroud.
O death, pale Death, across the lone white land
No heavenly rays are shed,—
Yet still thou-gazest, clutching Balder's hand,
At yonder gleam blood-red. . . .
No heavenly rays are shed,—
Yet still thou-gazest, clutching Balder's hand,
At yonder gleam blood-red. . . .
It crawleth as a snail along the ground,
Still far and faint to see,
O Death, it creepeth surely, with no sound,
Across the night, to thee.
Still far and faint to see,
O Death, it creepeth surely, with no sound,
Across the night, to thee.
O gentle Death,
Why dost thou crouch so low?
A star it seems, a star that travelleth
From snow to snow.
Why dost thou crouch so low?
A star it seems, a star that travelleth
From snow to snow.
Nearer it cometh, and across the night
Its beams fall crimson red,
The drifts beneath it glimmer and grow bright
Like cheeks lamp-lit and dead.
Its beams fall crimson red,
The drifts beneath it glimmer and grow bright
Like cheeks lamp-lit and dead.
O gentle Death,
Hither it cometh slow;—
A Shadow creepeth with the same, O Death
From snow to snow.
Hither it cometh slow;—
A Shadow creepeth with the same, O Death
From snow to snow.
| The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan | |