 | The poet, the fool and the faeries |  |
129
AUTUMN STORM
Topping the hills the oaks,
Black on the sunset's fire,
Draw, with terrific strokes,
Gates as it were of Tyre,
Burning; while, like a page
Out of some tragedy,
Heaven grows dark with rage,
Pregnant with things to be.
Black on the sunset's fire,
Draw, with terrific strokes,
Gates as it were of Tyre,
Burning; while, like a page
Out of some tragedy,
Heaven grows dark with rage,
Pregnant with things to be.
Out of the North the Wind
Gallops with all his hordes,
Hun-like, and gaunt and blind,
Swooping the Earth with swords:
Night, on her tower of cloud,
Lets her wild beacon flare;
Then, through the darkness loud,
Arrows rain everywhere.
Gallops with all his hordes,
Hun-like, and gaunt and blind,
Swooping the Earth with swords:
Night, on her tower of cloud,
Lets her wild beacon flare;
Then, through the darkness loud,
Arrows rain everywhere.
Wrapped in their mantles wide,
Cloaks of the mist that stream,
Onward the Hours ride,
Forward with never a gleam:
On through the forest, on,
Over wild hill and plain,
All the long night till dawn
Trample the troops of rain.
Cloaks of the mist that stream,
Onward the Hours ride,
Forward with never a gleam:
On through the forest, on,
Over wild hill and plain,
All the long night till dawn
Trample the troops of rain.
| The poet, the fool and the faeries | |