 | Poems by James Rhoades |  |
17
ODE TO WINTER.
Cold winter, art thou come,
With all thy savage blasts and shorten'd hours,
With nothing in thine eyes but starvèd gloam,
And sad forgetfulness of summer flowers,
With little on thy lips but moaning drear?
Come, saddest that thou art, least lov'd of all the year.
With all thy savage blasts and shorten'd hours,
With nothing in thine eyes but starvèd gloam,
And sad forgetfulness of summer flowers,
With little on thy lips but moaning drear?
Come, saddest that thou art, least lov'd of all the year.
I know that through and through
Thy bitter, piercing winds will search and leave
No green upon the boughs, but quite undo
The web that summer had such toil to weave,
Then freeze her songs to silence, till no bird,
Nor any passing stream along the woods be heard.
Thy bitter, piercing winds will search and leave
No green upon the boughs, but quite undo
The web that summer had such toil to weave,
Then freeze her songs to silence, till no bird,
Nor any passing stream along the woods be heard.
18
But now thy breath and face,
Pale wasted features and devouring tongue,
Seem fairer than young Spring in all her grace,
Or Summer wantoning the fields among,
Sweeter than king-cups crushed with foot of kine,
Or balmy winds that breathe through forests of the pine.
Pale wasted features and devouring tongue,
Seem fairer than young Spring in all her grace,
Or Summer wantoning the fields among,
Sweeter than king-cups crushed with foot of kine,
Or balmy winds that breathe through forests of the pine.
For what can Summer bring
That should not make the heart more sad than gay?
Or what avails the awak'ning voice of Spring
To boughs long cumber'd with the old year's decay?
Or what know we of death, that we should borrow
Comfort of earth's new joy, re-risen from Winter's sorrow?
That should not make the heart more sad than gay?
Or what avails the awak'ning voice of Spring
To boughs long cumber'd with the old year's decay?
Or what know we of death, that we should borrow
Comfort of earth's new joy, re-risen from Winter's sorrow?
But think, if only we
Might lay our hearts, even as the branches, bare,
Cast our old burdens off like them, and be
All night abandon'd to thy scourging air,
How would our lighten'd spirits not droop, as now,
To watch the year's young fire in every bursting bough!
Might lay our hearts, even as the branches, bare,
Cast our old burdens off like them, and be
All night abandon'd to thy scourging air,
How would our lighten'd spirits not droop, as now,
To watch the year's young fire in every bursting bough!
| Poems by James Rhoades | |