Laurella and other poems by John Todhunter |
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 | Laurella and other poems |  |
130
A SKETCH FROM NATURE.
An Autumn day! Splendour of light and shade,
Come the familiar landscape so to bless
With visitings from the sky, that, glade by glade,
The old grows new in its rich changefulness.
How swell the breasts of those proud cumuli,
Aglow with permeant light; no mass the same
Even for an instant; each still hurried on
By the fresh breeze, and rent—letting the sky
Gleam through: domes—chasms—you know not how they came,
And even while you are gazing they are gone.
Come the familiar landscape so to bless
With visitings from the sky, that, glade by glade,
The old grows new in its rich changefulness.
How swell the breasts of those proud cumuli,
Aglow with permeant light; no mass the same
Even for an instant; each still hurried on
By the fresh breeze, and rent—letting the sky
Gleam through: domes—chasms—you know not how they came,
And even while you are gazing they are gone.
The sky!—the blue abyss of tremulous air,
Alive with hues of subtlest palpitance,
Through which you gaze for ever, yet can ne'er
Fathom its azure, barred with many a lance
Of delicate cirrus—child of upper heaven,
Born out of mist, film-like, yet strangely still—
High-poised above the passionate unrest
Of the low-clouds that gather, and are driven,
And ruined at the wind's capricious will—
Vanishing into air, crest after crest.
Alive with hues of subtlest palpitance,
Through which you gaze for ever, yet can ne'er
Fathom its azure, barred with many a lance
Of delicate cirrus—child of upper heaven,
Born out of mist, film-like, yet strangely still—
131
Of the low-clouds that gather, and are driven,
And ruined at the wind's capricious will—
Vanishing into air, crest after crest.
Magnificence of change! Upon the hill
Cloud-shadows soft with fitful sungleams play,
In tenderest sequence; while the fresh west wind thrills
The frame with joy of health. Beneath its sway
Yon field of ripening corn sways like a sea,
Hissing. The grove sings in the breezy stress—
Lithe beeches toss their boughs, and oak and elm
Whiten at every gust, as gloriously
They wave their deepened wealth of leafiness
In the mid-distance, a wide-wooded realm.
Cloud-shadows soft with fitful sungleams play,
In tenderest sequence; while the fresh west wind thrills
The frame with joy of health. Beneath its sway
Yon field of ripening corn sways like a sea,
Hissing. The grove sings in the breezy stress—
Lithe beeches toss their boughs, and oak and elm
Whiten at every gust, as gloriously
They wave their deepened wealth of leafiness
In the mid-distance, a wide-wooded realm.
Now a cloud drives away, and warm and bright
The sunshine smites this field. Yon cottages-eaves
Are loud with swallows gathering for their flight,
And now and then some restless spirit leaves
The crowd, to skim once more the well-known plain;
Far overhead are battling with the wind
A pair of curlews—screaming as they pass;
Around me insect-life goes on amain,
Blithe grasshoppers with music of their kind
Answer each other in the sunny grass.
The sunshine smites this field. Yon cottages-eaves
Are loud with swallows gathering for their flight,
And now and then some restless spirit leaves
The crowd, to skim once more the well-known plain;
Far overhead are battling with the wind
A pair of curlews—screaming as they pass;
Around me insect-life goes on amain,
Blithe grasshoppers with music of their kind
Answer each other in the sunny grass.
132
Magnificence of change! On such a day
Existence is a passion: not the joy
That fills the glad exuberance of May,
But deeper, tempered with a calm alloy
Of melancholy. When the ripening year
Draws to its full fruition; when all hues
Of earth are mellowest; when the changeful sky
Is loveliest in its changes: yet we hear
The winds begin their dirge for what we lose
When Autumn's purple fruitage is gone by.
Existence is a passion: not the joy
That fills the glad exuberance of May,
But deeper, tempered with a calm alloy
Of melancholy. When the ripening year
Draws to its full fruition; when all hues
Of earth are mellowest; when the changeful sky
Is loveliest in its changes: yet we hear
The winds begin their dirge for what we lose
When Autumn's purple fruitage is gone by.
| Laurella and other poems | |