 | The Poet and Nature and The Morning Road |  |
231
THE COMING OF WINTER.
The hungry glitter of War's wolfish eyes
Gleamed where the sunset dies;
And then the Wind stopped at the door and laughed,
Like one who tries
To mask his purpose with designing craft.
Gleamed where the sunset dies;
And then the Wind stopped at the door and laughed,
Like one who tries
To mask his purpose with designing craft.
I knew 'twas Winter, stripping all of worth
In the fair House of Earth—
Of all its hoarded gold—and in its place
Leaving lean Dearth
To ape the skeleton, Famine, with her face.
In the fair House of Earth—
Of all its hoarded gold—and in its place
Leaving lean Dearth
To ape the skeleton, Famine, with her face.
Balsam and pimpernel and all the pearls
Of flowers that decked the curls
Of Summer, lo! he seizes for his band
Of vandal churls,
Famine and Frost and Death, with icy hand.
Of flowers that decked the curls
Of Summer, lo! he seizes for his band
Of vandal churls,
Famine and Frost and Death, with icy hand.
The panther-tawny hills crouch round and gaze,
Gaunt-faced, at Heaven; or raise
Huge claws of forest, stretching them to seize
The fields of maize,
Who, in their terror, seem to shrink and freeze.
Gaunt-faced, at Heaven; or raise
Huge claws of forest, stretching them to seize
The fields of maize,
Who, in their terror, seem to shrink and freeze.
232
Some jewels Autumn dropped, when taking flight,
Mark with a starry white
The place she stood; and patches, red as fruit,
Among the blight,
Show, where she fled, the imprint of her foot.
Mark with a starry white
The place she stood; and patches, red as fruit,
Among the blight,
Show, where she fled, the imprint of her foot.
Here lies the testament Earth keeps apart,
For Nature, in her heart;
Come, bend and read of all her joy and pride,
The beautiful art
She builds with, and that Love has sanctified.
For Nature, in her heart;
Come, bend and read of all her joy and pride,
The beautiful art
She builds with, and that Love has sanctified.
In root and seed read of immortal things—
Of what again she brings
To life—dead Beauty, that no hand may bar;
Of Song's wild wings
And Color's palette, refuged now afar.
Of what again she brings
To life—dead Beauty, that no hand may bar;
Of Song's wild wings
And Color's palette, refuged now afar.
Take hope! though now she speaks her thoughts in weeds
Instead of flowers, and pleads
In winds instead of birds, her book, though sealed,
To him who reads,
Bears messages of Spring—to be revealed.
Instead of flowers, and pleads
In winds instead of birds, her book, though sealed,
To him who reads,
Bears messages of Spring—to be revealed.
| The Poet and Nature and The Morning Road | |