The Collected Poems of Lord De Tabley [i.e. J. B. L. Warren] |
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| II. |
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| XIII. |
| XIV. |
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| XVI. |
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CARPE DIEM |
 | The Collected Poems of Lord De Tabley |  |
449
CARPE DIEM
The year flows on in bloom
To make lush Autumn room,
Time takes his mother by the hand to go;
The little rippling Hours
Push tender feet in flowers,
And Amor, leaning film-eyed on his bow,
To make lush Autumn room,
Time takes his mother by the hand to go;
The little rippling Hours
Push tender feet in flowers,
And Amor, leaning film-eyed on his bow,
Hears the good rain alive
Tinkling and humming drive
The molten summer, petal, bloom and seed.
He lays the peony by;
Her core of pride is dry,
And black her flaming heart as any weed.
Tinkling and humming drive
The molten summer, petal, bloom and seed.
He lays the peony by;
Her core of pride is dry,
And black her flaming heart as any weed.
Ah! in no other wise
The yearning swallow cries:
“Sun-land out yonder, I am weak to go,
My plumes are hardly set,
I am a nestling yet,
And, lo! I scent on northern hills the snow.”
The yearning swallow cries:
“Sun-land out yonder, I am weak to go,
My plumes are hardly set,
I am a nestling yet,
And, lo! I scent on northern hills the snow.”
Where chiefly woods have laid
Their arms of twisted shade,
Thy footsteps falter in a depth of leaves;
Thine eyes are very gray,
Thy raiment dim as they
Who stand afar in mist on leaden eves.
Their arms of twisted shade,
Thy footsteps falter in a depth of leaves;
Thine eyes are very gray,
Thy raiment dim as they
Who stand afar in mist on leaden eves.
Among the wine-deep whin,
Where red-wings fluster in,
She sits among the larches that I know,
Crumbling in each wan hand
A heath-spike's bells like sand,
Smiling a little, but her lips are slow.
Where red-wings fluster in,
She sits among the larches that I know,
Crumbling in each wan hand
A heath-spike's bells like sand,
Smiling a little, but her lips are slow.
My lady waits me there,
A wilful maid right fair,
Not glad to see or glad to let me stay.
She knows not her sweet mind,
Nor kind nor yet unkind,
A little sorry if I kept away.
A wilful maid right fair,
Not glad to see or glad to let me stay.
She knows not her sweet mind,
Nor kind nor yet unkind,
A little sorry if I kept away.
| The Collected Poems of Lord De Tabley | |