 | Louise de la Valliaere and other poems |  |
92
A SAD YEAR.
1882.
The last month being come,
December, in sad guise of deathly white,
I counted with sore heart the sons of light
Whose wise lips had grown dumb
Since the last New Year's morn,
And thought Death's harvest had been full and wide
And fair and rich the grain his sweeping scythe
Had gathered to the barn.
December, in sad guise of deathly white,
I counted with sore heart the sons of light
Whose wise lips had grown dumb
Since the last New Year's morn,
And thought Death's harvest had been full and wide
And fair and rich the grain his sweeping scythe
Had gathered to the barn.
Three poets died in Spring—
We wept the dear dead singer of the West,
Who lay with sweet wet violets on his breast
When leaves were bourgeoning;
A poet spirit fled
From Irish shores, in Resurrection days;
And England twined wan immortelles with bays
For one beloved grey head.
We wept the dear dead singer of the West,
Who lay with sweet wet violets on his breast
When leaves were bourgeoning;
93
From Irish shores, in Resurrection days;
And England twined wan immortelles with bays
For one beloved grey head.
And, as the year went by,
Death called our best and dearest to his feast—
Poet and artist, ruler, sage and priest,
A goodly company.
The Spring's flowers waxèd pale,
Summer cast rue for roses in her path,
And the lone Autumn brought its meed of death,
And sad was Winter's tale.
Death called our best and dearest to his feast—
Poet and artist, ruler, sage and priest,
A goodly company.
The Spring's flowers waxèd pale,
Summer cast rue for roses in her path,
And the lone Autumn brought its meed of death,
And sad was Winter's tale.
And so my heart was tired
Counting the loss, and knowing not the gain.
In the year's cradles many a babe hath lain;
And who shall be inspired
To tell our hearts that weep
What gifts the sweet small hands bring far-off years?
We know but this—that “they who sow in tears
In shining joy shall reap.”
Counting the loss, and knowing not the gain.
In the year's cradles many a babe hath lain;
And who shall be inspired
To tell our hearts that weep
What gifts the sweet small hands bring far-off years?
We know but this—that “they who sow in tears
In shining joy shall reap.”
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