 | Louise de la Valliaere and other poems |  |
63
A DAY OF FROST.
The King, that speedeth from a northern land,
With shining robe bedight with many a gem
And gleam and flash of jewelled diadem,
O'er the grey world hath waved his magic wand;
And where the sodden earth showed bare and brown,
A rare regalia he hath shaken down.
With shining robe bedight with many a gem
And gleam and flash of jewelled diadem,
O'er the grey world hath waved his magic wand;
And where the sodden earth showed bare and brown,
A rare regalia he hath shaken down.
Tenderly doth he touch the dear dead leaves,
Tremulous once, and fair, and paly-green,
But now down-fallen, have lost their fairy sheen,
Ah, what a change his gentle magic weaves!
The deathly robe, and dark, each late did wear,
Is meshed with shimmering silver, fine and fair.
Tremulous once, and fair, and paly-green,
But now down-fallen, have lost their fairy sheen,
Ah, what a change his gentle magic weaves!
The deathly robe, and dark, each late did wear,
Is meshed with shimmering silver, fine and fair.
Every bare bough's a-glitter. Hush! I hear
From yon stark tree a gush of melody.
Sing out, my birdie! I rejoice with thee,
Whose heart is light, for that the air is clear,
Shines a gold sun, and sapphire is the sky,
Though rose-crowned June be many a month gone by.
From yon stark tree a gush of melody.
64
Whose heart is light, for that the air is clear,
Shines a gold sun, and sapphire is the sky,
Though rose-crowned June be many a month gone by.
Down in the earth—hush! clamorous bird of mine!—
Are strange things stirring. Bright elves out of sight
Fashion this hour king's goblets gold and white,
Shapely and carven fair to hold the wine.
Soon wilt thou see, some morn, rise fairly up
The snowdrop chalice and the crocus cup.
Are strange things stirring. Bright elves out of sight
Fashion this hour king's goblets gold and white,
Shapely and carven fair to hold the wine.
Soon wilt thou see, some morn, rise fairly up
The snowdrop chalice and the crocus cup.
Sing, then, and sway, and close thine eyes to sing!
Dream that June's sun is slanting goldenly
In on thy soft brown sleeping mate, and thee,
And the small heads beneath the mother's wing.
O, the long singing days, the love at home,
When the wan wild rose of the June hath come!
Dream that June's sun is slanting goldenly
In on thy soft brown sleeping mate, and thee,
And the small heads beneath the mother's wing.
O, the long singing days, the love at home,
When the wan wild rose of the June hath come!
| Louise de la Valliaere and other poems | |