 | The Literary Works of James Smetham |  |
250
RETROSPECTION
Restless clouds of dusky gray
Fill the sky at shut of day,
Wandering on in solemn hosts,
Flitting dark and purposeless
As a vessel in distress;
Flitting on like unlaid ghosts.
Fill the sky at shut of day,
Wandering on in solemn hosts,
Flitting dark and purposeless
As a vessel in distress;
Flitting on like unlaid ghosts.
Where the gusty south wind passes,
Bending all the tufted grasses,
Sighing in the bladed sedge
By the moorland water's edge,
Making every bulrush whistle,
Blowing down from every thistle.
Bending all the tufted grasses,
Sighing in the bladed sedge
By the moorland water's edge,
Making every bulrush whistle,
Blowing down from every thistle.
On the slope of every hill
Seems to shudder every tree,
Every poplar seems to be
Sighing loud against its will;
Little riplets sweep the river,
Blinding every clear reflection,
Driven in this and that direction
As the curdling waters shiver.
Seems to shudder every tree,
Every poplar seems to be
Sighing loud against its will;
Little riplets sweep the river,
Blinding every clear reflection,
Driven in this and that direction
As the curdling waters shiver.
Where the sky has any light,
'Tis a wild and fearful gleam,
Like the spiritual beam
Of the lonely northern night,
Where the muffled sledges go,
Flying shades in wastes of snow.
'Tis a wild and fearful gleam,
Like the spiritual beam
251
Where the muffled sledges go,
Flying shades in wastes of snow.
Not a star can pierce the cover
Where those wide-winged shadows hover;
Nor a note of any bird
When the wind a moment ceases,
And the sand-drifts fall to pieces;
Not a chirrup can be heard.
Where those wide-winged shadows hover;
Nor a note of any bird
When the wind a moment ceases,
And the sand-drifts fall to pieces;
Not a chirrup can be heard.
Oh, how very strange and lonely
To be walking in the meadows,
As a shadow blown with shadows;
As it were a spirit only!
To be walking in the meadows,
As a shadow blown with shadows;
As it were a spirit only!
Not a memory of the sun
Crosses the gray waste of thought,
But the silent dead are brought
From their coffins one by one.
Crosses the gray waste of thought,
But the silent dead are brought
From their coffins one by one.
He whose voice long since would utter
What thy lips unconscious mutter,
Words of sweet and solemn warning
Spoken till thy heart was stilled,
And ye paced about the field,
Silent in the breezy morning.
What thy lips unconscious mutter,
Words of sweet and solemn warning
Spoken till thy heart was stilled,
And ye paced about the field,
Silent in the breezy morning.
He whose steady, strong desire,
Like a slow-consuming fire,
Waited year by year to see
Excellence excelled by thee,
Heart to wish and thought to plan
Noblest destinies for man,
With sublime solicitude,
Yearning for the loftiest good—
Far into the winter's night
Loved to sit and meditate
In the chambers of his mind,
While he listened to the wind,
O'er the spirit's separate state
Weaving chains of argument,
With his earnest eyebrows bent;
Till the mighty issues brought
Stronger faith to purer thought:—
If his disembodied soul
Stood before thee, thou wouldst be
Fearless, while thou saidst, 'Tis he!
Like a slow-consuming fire,
Waited year by year to see
Excellence excelled by thee,
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Noblest destinies for man,
With sublime solicitude,
Yearning for the loftiest good—
Far into the winter's night
Loved to sit and meditate
In the chambers of his mind,
While he listened to the wind,
O'er the spirit's separate state
Weaving chains of argument,
With his earnest eyebrows bent;
Till the mighty issues brought
Stronger faith to purer thought:—
If his disembodied soul
Stood before thee, thou wouldst be
Fearless, while thou saidst, 'Tis he!
She round whom thy arm would twine
When the summer sun was sinking,
And your mutual eyes were drinking,
Thou from hers and she from thine:
All the fragrance of the clover,
And the glimmering hedge-roses,
Closing as the daylight closes,
Come and flood thy memory over;
For the clover and the daisies,
Which the sun unthinking raises,
Seven new springs have blown above her,
She the lost to thee the lover.
When the summer sun was sinking,
And your mutual eyes were drinking,
Thou from hers and she from thine:
All the fragrance of the clover,
And the glimmering hedge-roses,
Closing as the daylight closes,
Come and flood thy memory over;
For the clover and the daisies,
Which the sun unthinking raises,
Seven new springs have blown above her,
She the lost to thee the lover.
| The Literary Works of James Smetham | |