The Collected Poems of Lord De Tabley [i.e. J. B. L. Warren] |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
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A CHURCHYARD YEW |
 | The Collected Poems of Lord De Tabley |  |
A CHURCHYARD YEW
Bright levels of the wandering wave
Behind the russet sails,
How soon your burnish fails:
Soon die the damask-amber glows,
Isled on a galaxy of rose,
In splendid veils.
Behind the russet sails,
How soon your burnish fails:
Soon die the damask-amber glows,
Isled on a galaxy of rose,
In splendid veils.
Sad yew-tree, sister of the grave,
Black upas nursed on death,
Thy root draws mandrake breath,
The windy branches creak, and tell
In what fat bitter soil they dwell,
Who sleep beneath.
Black upas nursed on death,
Thy root draws mandrake breath,
The windy branches creak, and tell
In what fat bitter soil they dwell,
Who sleep beneath.
Thy feet grim sloping gravestones pave:
Thy bole salt crystals smear
With scurf of briny tear:
Thy gnarled and torture-twisted form
Shrinks landward from the scathing storm,
Year after year.
Thy bole salt crystals smear
With scurf of briny tear:
Thy gnarled and torture-twisted form
Shrinks landward from the scathing storm,
Year after year.
408
But here are girls and soldiers brave
Beneath the sods at calm:
And lovers here, whose psalm
The dismal silence long hath dulled,
And here is Sorrow lapt and lulled
In slumber's balm.
Beneath the sods at calm:
And lovers here, whose psalm
The dismal silence long hath dulled,
And here is Sorrow lapt and lulled
In slumber's balm.
The robin whistles on a grave,
His throat with song distended;
A butterfly has wended
To some hic jacet, where he clings
To close and open shuddering wings
With borders splendid.
His throat with song distended;
A butterfly has wended
To some hic jacet, where he clings
To close and open shuddering wings
With borders splendid.
Thou heedest not the wild bird's stave,
Old bitter broken tree,
Thou feedest not the bee.
Thou drawest from thy soil of blight
A deadly apathy, and Night
Environs thee.
Old bitter broken tree,
Thou feedest not the bee.
Thou drawest from thy soil of blight
A deadly apathy, and Night
Environs thee.
Here, as the wild green breakers rave,
Thy berry, fleshed in red,
Hangs down its poisoned head;
There squeaking bats in gloom carouse,
And, roosted in thy charnel boughs,
The owl's in bed.
Thy berry, fleshed in red,
Hangs down its poisoned head;
There squeaking bats in gloom carouse,
And, roosted in thy charnel boughs,
The owl's in bed.
The mole is working in her cave,
By glowworm taper shine,
She graveward drives her mine.
And, on a wreath of faded roses,
A lean old rat to these discloses
How he shall dine.
By glowworm taper shine,
She graveward drives her mine.
And, on a wreath of faded roses,
A lean old rat to these discloses
How he shall dine.
Cold stars above their glimmer save:
And haggard is the moon
To hear the raven's tune—
How soon must Love and Glory rust,
And rosy lasses come to dust
And slumber soon.
And haggard is the moon
To hear the raven's tune—
How soon must Love and Glory rust,
And rosy lasses come to dust
And slumber soon.
| The Collected Poems of Lord De Tabley | |