 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
166
ST. LUKE'S SUMMER
Ah me! how good to breathe, to hear, to see!
Flown is the languid summer's drooping heat;
The large wind blusters, racing boisterously,
And whistles in the stubble at our feet.
Flown is the languid summer's drooping heat;
The large wind blusters, racing boisterously,
And whistles in the stubble at our feet.
Before the dark November glooms draw near,
Before the sad mist, like a veil, is drawn
Athwart the leafless covert, and the drear
Wet winter shudders at the lingering dawn.
Before the sad mist, like a veil, is drawn
Athwart the leafless covert, and the drear
Wet winter shudders at the lingering dawn.
To-day, when Autumn over leafy miles
Unfurls his crimson banners, brave and bold,
The pine frowns blacker through the forest aisles,
When all beside is splashed with reckless gold.
Unfurls his crimson banners, brave and bold,
The pine frowns blacker through the forest aisles,
When all beside is splashed with reckless gold.
Pale with chill lustre in the duskier plain,
The brimming river winding I descry,
Under the flying footsteps of the rain
The hamlet's whirling smoke-wreaths fade and fly.
The brimming river winding I descry,
Under the flying footsteps of the rain
The hamlet's whirling smoke-wreaths fade and fly.
Over the red roofs blinks the solemn tower,
With shuttered eyelids, meditating peace,
Or stirs itself to strike a pensive hour,
Then dreams and wonders till the echoes cease.
With shuttered eyelids, meditating peace,
Or stirs itself to strike a pensive hour,
Then dreams and wonders till the echoes cease.
167
At that calm note a host of broodings rash
Take noisy wing, and fly the troubled brain,
Bred in the damp hours when the slow rains splash
And trickle down the sodden streaming lane.
Take noisy wing, and fly the troubled brain,
Bred in the damp hours when the slow rains splash
And trickle down the sodden streaming lane.
Thy soft balms mollify the fretted soul,
Fresh wind of autumn: how divine to see
The tides of circumstance beneath me roll,
Alone, upon a grassy down with thee.
Fresh wind of autumn: how divine to see
The tides of circumstance beneath me roll,
Alone, upon a grassy down with thee.
Yet back upon themselves the old chimes ring!
Healing is well, yet wherefore wounds to heal?
Bear with the listless hour, the suffering;
The breezes blow, and we have learned to feel.
Healing is well, yet wherefore wounds to heal?
Bear with the listless hour, the suffering;
The breezes blow, and we have learned to feel.
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |