 | Poems by James Rhoades |  |
127
XIII.
[O thou that comest on earth to spoil and sting]
O thou that comest on earth to spoil and sting,More joyless from remember'd joys of Spring,
Paler and sicklier for red Summer's health,
And ten-fold fruitless after Autumn's wealth,
Winter! once more thou'rt with us on that fierce foot
That stamps the swift stream to a marble slab,
And from thy quiver the frozen lightnings stab
Down through earth's armour to the deep tree-root.
There is in all the world no flower or tune
Where thou abidest, but barren hoar-frost white,
And snow-blooms blown from heaven, till the aching light
Has darken'd from swift noon to after-noon—
Then lo! the subtle-broider'd tent of Night,
Full of gold buds and one white flower, the Moon!
| Poems by James Rhoades | |