 | Odes and Eclogves |  |
7
TO A BRAMBLE IN WINTER
Oh thou that sinkest lower, changing now
Into a vermeil russet thy green brow,
Is then the youth, that once shone clear and bright,
Within thee still? Need I but think aright,
And in thy weak leaves, bibulous of rain,
And flaccid stem, I shall behold again
The trim, thorn-guarded vigour of thy prime,
And the green boldness of thy summer time,
Which dashed Jove's shower from thine unaltered face,
And still maintained thy reappearing grace,
When the winds shook, but could not rifle thee?
Into a vermeil russet thy green brow,
Is then the youth, that once shone clear and bright,
Within thee still? Need I but think aright,
And in thy weak leaves, bibulous of rain,
And flaccid stem, I shall behold again
The trim, thorn-guarded vigour of thy prime,
And the green boldness of thy summer time,
Which dashed Jove's shower from thine unaltered face,
And still maintained thy reappearing grace,
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Oh, still would I believe thee blithe and free,
See thy flowers still, and then thy cherished germ
Nodding to ripeness all the summer's term,
And richly deepening: still would I confess
In later months thy freshness not the less
When all were trembling, when the beech turned brown,
And life's last relics sought the foxglove's crown,
As sunk the year. But now, alas, behold
How droop thy fans! Some secret touch of cold
Trails thy rings lower, and relaxes all
The brave-spread stiffness of thy banners tall.
The bird that on thy shaken coil may light
Trusts not his little weight to thy weak might,
But beats his wings till he may spring from thee.
Playfellow of the winds no more, thy glee
Invites them not: the dark heaven-wandering rain
Or smites or spares thee with the like disdain.
See thy flowers still, and then thy cherished germ
Nodding to ripeness all the summer's term,
And richly deepening: still would I confess
In later months thy freshness not the less
When all were trembling, when the beech turned brown,
And life's last relics sought the foxglove's crown,
As sunk the year. But now, alas, behold
How droop thy fans! Some secret touch of cold
Trails thy rings lower, and relaxes all
The brave-spread stiffness of thy banners tall.
The bird that on thy shaken coil may light
Trusts not his little weight to thy weak might,
But beats his wings till he may spring from thee.
Playfellow of the winds no more, thy glee
9
Or smites or spares thee with the like disdain.
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