University of Virginia Library

THE DANCES OF THE LEAVES.

Now the sky is ever filling, ever filling,
On such dark and rainy eves,
With unwilling, with unwilling
Eddies of the countless leaves.
They are sailing, they are sailing
Round the wet and dripping trees,
Mid the wailing, mid the wailing
Groanings of the dying breeze.
Twisting, twirling, ever swirling
Round the black and matted boughs,
Where the whirling, restless whirling
Rooks do harbour and do house.
Witches' circles, witches' circles
Higher than the leafless tree,
Countless circles, lessening circles,
With a wild, unearthly glee.
Like the madmen, like the madmen,
In a dance around the dead,
Mopping, mowing, mopping, mowing,
Round the pale form on the bed.
And the branches creep and shiver,
As they flutter, as they flutter,
From the copsewood to the river,
While the bare woods sigh and mutter.
In a cluster, in a cluster,
From the hollows in the lane;
How they muster, how they muster,
Like the spirits through the rain.
All their pinions, all their pinions,
Black and crimson, brown and gold,
Their dominions, their dominions,
Conquered by the winter cold.
Their procession, their procession
Crowds along the churchyard path;
Their progression, their progression,
Growing swifter as in wrath.
Hurry, hurry, hurry, hurry,
Over heath and yellow broom;
How they scurry, how they scurry,
Like the devils to the doom.
Flying Arabs, flying Arabs,
When the wind comes howling after;
Scattered Caribs, scattered Caribs,
Leaping over roof and rafter.
Over paling, over paling,
Through the park and o'er the lawn;
And their railing, and their railing,
Mocks the loud wind's thunder scorn.
Groping blinded, groping blinded,
Through the pine tree's prison bars,
Cruel minded, cruel minded,
By the pale light of the stars.
Up the garden, up the garden,
Where the flowers hang black in flakes,
(Pray for pardon, pray for pardon!)
Like the rags from gibbet stakes.
See the foot-prints, see the foot-prints,
Of death bearers from the doors,
And the white splints, and the white splints,
Of the oak tree on the moors.
Showering, showering, ever showering,
On the bald head of the digger;
Poring, poring, old and poring,
In the grave that's growing bigger.
At the lattice, at the lattice,
Drive the leaves like noisy rain;
In rage that is, in rage that is,
Hating joy and all her train.
Fire-lights flutter, fire-lights flutter,
Round the deep embrasured room.
Shadows mutter, shadows mutter,
To the creatures of the gloom.
Hear the cricket, hear the cricket,
Like the spirit of the hearth;
While the wicket, while the wicket,
Shakes in chorus to its mirth.
Up the chancel, up the chancel,
Through the open eastern oriel;
Tombs they cancel, tombs they cancel,
With a sound of grief corporeal.
Then they scatter, then they scatter,
Up the round stairs of the tower,
Where they batter, where they batter,
All man wrought in his brief hour.
And they muffle, and they muffle,
All the deep and clamorous bells.
Then they shuffle, how they shuffle,
Through the room where no one dwells.
Ever wending, ever wending,
Spite of winter's blustering rage,
An unending, an unending,
Sad and weary pilgrimage.
Never resting, never resting,
Till the spring blows soft again,
And the western, and the western
Sky grows azure after rain.
Till the cuckoo, till the cuckoo,
Scares the sleeping shepherd boy.
“Willy, look you—Willy, look you,
Flowers break forth for very joy.”
Such the dances, such the dances,
Of the leaves throughout the year;
Seen in trances, seen in trances,
Just as I have written here.