 | The Autumn Garden |  |
75
Dirge
John Ruskin, January 1900.
Mourn, upward-stealing vapours, sunset-amber,
Cirrhus and cumulus of fire and snow!
No more against the labouring west-wind clamber,
But pour your tears upon the mead below,
Since he who shepherded your cohort slow,
Who named and loved and watched you, one by one,
Goes darkly down to that immortal chamber,
Whence he shall never see you blot the sun,
Nor chase and toss the dancing stars on high,
Nor weave your tender woof, when day is done,
Over the silken sky.
Cirrhus and cumulus of fire and snow!
No more against the labouring west-wind clamber,
But pour your tears upon the mead below,
Since he who shepherded your cohort slow,
Who named and loved and watched you, one by one,
Goes darkly down to that immortal chamber,
Whence he shall never see you blot the sun,
Nor chase and toss the dancing stars on high,
Nor weave your tender woof, when day is done,
Over the silken sky.
Mourn, mourn, ye Alps, whose crystal paradises
Know neither space nor time, save when and where
The avalanche from desperate precipices
Tolls a rude thundering hour through shuddering air,
He who amongst you walked, and named you fair,
And traced each delicate hornèd crest with joy,
And justified your savage sacrifices,
Him shall no more your azure glens decoy;
Far from your silver light, your starry gust,
Him to eternal stillness tears convoy,
To silence and to dust.
Know neither space nor time, save when and where
The avalanche from desperate precipices
Tolls a rude thundering hour through shuddering air,
He who amongst you walked, and named you fair,
And traced each delicate hornèd crest with joy,
And justified your savage sacrifices,
Him shall no more your azure glens decoy;
Far from your silver light, your starry gust,
Him to eternal stillness tears convoy,
To silence and to dust.
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