 | Gathered poems of Ernest Myers |  |
94
WINTER WASTE
Ah, would that it were summer, once more the summer prime,
When the bloom was on the roses and the bees were in the thyme,
In the thyme-flower on the moorland, on the roses in the vale,
And there the lark was singing, and here the nightingale.
When the bloom was on the roses and the bees were in the thyme,
In the thyme-flower on the moorland, on the roses in the vale,
And there the lark was singing, and here the nightingale.
O the still and ancient garden where the nightingale sang strong
Till the brief sweet night was ended and the morning hushed her song:
Then the earth put on queen's raiment, glad sounds and lovely light,
And the wide heaven widened upward, and our spirits climbed the height.
Till the brief sweet night was ended and the morning hushed her song:
95
And the wide heaven widened upward, and our spirits climbed the height.
Then the great trees swayed their branches and murmured each to each:
The chestnut to the cedar, and the lime-tree to the beech;
O the beech's purple splendour and the fragrance of the lime,
Glad gifts from thee their giver, O golden summer-time.
The chestnut to the cedar, and the lime-tree to the beech;
O the beech's purple splendour and the fragrance of the lime,
Glad gifts from thee their giver, O golden summer-time.
And yet with all these fair things there were fairer things than these,
Bright-wingëd Hopes that hovered among the murmuring trees;
With beat of magic plumage their flying fanned the air,
And their song divine was singing what our hearts imagined there.
Bright-wingëd Hopes that hovered among the murmuring trees;
With beat of magic plumage their flying fanned the air,
And their song divine was singing what our hearts imagined there.
96
But now the trees moan leafless, the bleak day's pallid eye
Gropes on in stealth ignoble o'er his little space of sky,
The east wind whines and whistles, the air is chill and wan,
And all the fragrance scattered, and all the glory gone.
Gropes on in stealth ignoble o'er his little space of sky,
The east wind whines and whistles, the air is chill and wan,
And all the fragrance scattered, and all the glory gone.
| Gathered poems of Ernest Myers | |