 | English Roses |  |
GRAY FEELINGS.
If snow were all outside, it were but little—
Nay, it were truly well,
Part of the frosty spell,
Which drops at last on each and leaves life brittle.
I do not murmur that my head is hoary,
And icy traces linger;
Because it is God's finger,
Which writes upon me now memento mori.
I know that pleasures fade
Within the growing shade,
Which no one can evade,
And with the oldness comes a coldness.
Nay, it were truly well,
Part of the frosty spell,
Which drops at last on each and leaves life brittle.
I do not murmur that my head is hoary,
And icy traces linger;
Because it is God's finger,
Which writes upon me now memento mori.
I know that pleasures fade
Within the growing shade,
418
And with the oldness comes a coldness.
My house is feeble and the rooftree trembles
Beneath the venomed blast,
And the undying Past
Wakes terrors in my heart which ill dissembles;
And pain athwart my eaves with jagged splinter
Hangs as the water frozen,
With pangs I cannot cozen
To silence—but this is not all the winter.
For in my secret breast
However brightly drest
The chills and vapours rest,
And the last ember is December.
Beneath the venomed blast,
And the undying Past
Wakes terrors in my heart which ill dissembles;
And pain athwart my eaves with jagged splinter
Hangs as the water frozen,
With pangs I cannot cozen
To silence—but this is not all the winter.
For in my secret breast
However brightly drest
The chills and vapours rest,
And the last ember is December.
I do not mark so much the tempest reelings
At which I often start,
But snow about my heart
And in its sacred hush the dim gray feelings;
The frost has seized my hopes and rudely scattered,
And grimly with its mesh old
Weaves on my very threshold
The fatal web which never yet was shattered;
It sets the bitter clasp
Of fretting points, that rasp,
My strength, against the grasp,
And through the marrow drives its harrow.
At which I often start,
But snow about my heart
And in its sacred hush the dim gray feelings;
The frost has seized my hopes and rudely scattered,
And grimly with its mesh old
Weaves on my very threshold
The fatal web which never yet was shattered;
It sets the bitter clasp
Of fretting points, that rasp,
My strength, against the grasp,
And through the marrow drives its harrow.
Till from dull windows with their muffled curtain
Of mist and murky fog,
And heavy airs that clog
My straining sight, the earth looms all uncertain.
Dear loves, that early blazed like friendly beacons
In dim despair are shrouded,
And God's own Face is clouded
In twilight and His hold upon me weakens;
And deeply in my life
With doubting sick and rife
Rolls the wan winter strife,
As on sere meadows evening shadows.
Of mist and murky fog,
And heavy airs that clog
My straining sight, the earth looms all uncertain.
Dear loves, that early blazed like friendly beacons
In dim despair are shrouded,
And God's own Face is clouded
In twilight and His hold upon me weakens;
And deeply in my life
With doubting sick and rife
Rolls the wan winter strife,
As on sere meadows evening shadows.
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