 | Forest Notes |  |
59
THE CHARGE OF THE WINGED STEEDS
The firs are ranged in endless dark battalions
On mountain-side and valley, line on line,
Waiting the Winds, that on their viewless stallions
Are bearing down, at Winter's sudden sign.
The mighty trees are grappling to the rock
With every root, preparing for the shock
Of that wild cavalry, and seem to hearken
Silent and sturdy, as the grey clouds darken,
For the first howl of war.
On mountain-side and valley, line on line,
Waiting the Winds, that on their viewless stallions
Are bearing down, at Winter's sudden sign.
The mighty trees are grappling to the rock
With every root, preparing for the shock
Of that wild cavalry, and seem to hearken
Silent and sturdy, as the grey clouds darken,
For the first howl of war.
From far away
Its echo comes; and like a moaning wave
It thrills each giant fir. The great boughs sway
And shower down dead needles. Dark and grave
The fir trunks wait. And, lo, a stronger sound,
A roar and rattle, shakes the very ground,
Louder and louder yet, from North to South,
And makes the forest shudder. Winter's mouth
Blows its great battle peal.
Its echo comes; and like a moaning wave
It thrills each giant fir. The great boughs sway
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The fir trunks wait. And, lo, a stronger sound,
A roar and rattle, shakes the very ground,
Louder and louder yet, from North to South,
And makes the forest shudder. Winter's mouth
Blows its great battle peal.
And now they come
The shadowy squadrons, howling their wild song
Of death and devastation, from their home
In the dark North: and as they whirl along
Urging their tameless steeds with icy whip
The fir stems bend beneath them. Clench your grip,
Ye desperate roots! Again and yet again
The Winds renew the charge and break in vain
Against the serried trunks that creak and groan
Indomitably firm, and hold their own
Beneath a million scimitars. The roar
Shrills to a lyric horror.
The shadowy squadrons, howling their wild song
Of death and devastation, from their home
In the dark North: and as they whirl along
Urging their tameless steeds with icy whip
The fir stems bend beneath them. Clench your grip,
Ye desperate roots! Again and yet again
The Winds renew the charge and break in vain
Against the serried trunks that creak and groan
Indomitably firm, and hold their own
Beneath a million scimitars. The roar
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When the last
Of the winged stallions of the North has passed,
And all is dumb and motionless once more,
The Forest's face has altered: all that told
Of Summer's joy and Autumn's lingering sway
Has vanished in a moment, swept away
By Winter's ghostly steeds; and all is cold,
And colourless and bare, and nature old.
Of the winged stallions of the North has passed,
And all is dumb and motionless once more,
The Forest's face has altered: all that told
Of Summer's joy and Autumn's lingering sway
Has vanished in a moment, swept away
By Winter's ghostly steeds; and all is cold,
And colourless and bare, and nature old.
E.
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