 | Poems by Henry Septimus Sutton |  |
61
THE ARBOUR.
Silent sits the gentle Evening on the meads
With her twilight-retinue;
And on grassy threads she strings her dewy beads
Yet scantily and few,
While her soft breaths give a tremble to the weeds
And a tremble to the dew.
With her twilight-retinue;
And on grassy threads she strings her dewy beads
Yet scantily and few,
While her soft breaths give a tremble to the weeds
And a tremble to the dew.
She hath faintly both the sun and moon display'd
On the grey flag that she rears,
And the dimness of her dark hair shoots a shade
Through the light that disappears
Very slowly from her features, all array'd
In loveliness and tears.
On the grey flag that she rears,
And the dimness of her dark hair shoots a shade
Through the light that disappears
Very slowly from her features, all array'd
In loveliness and tears.
But what shall be her beauty when compared
With the human presence fair
Of the maiden sitting silent in the bower
On the quaint and rustic chair,—
The beads impaled upon her lashes,
And the darkness in her hair?
With the human presence fair
Of the maiden sitting silent in the bower
On the quaint and rustic chair,—
The beads impaled upon her lashes,
And the darkness in her hair?
62
With high hand to the mastery of the bowe
Climbing clematis lays claim,
But the honeysuckle's rivalry is bold
And eager for the same;
And Annie sits as motionless as picture
In a flower-abounding frame.
Climbing clematis lays claim,
But the honeysuckle's rivalry is bold
And eager for the same;
And Annie sits as motionless as picture
In a flower-abounding frame.
Unfinish'd lies her broidery on the table,
And the needle is at rest,
For her eyes are on the light-absorbing clouds
That gather in the west,
And her hands, uplifted, unaware are pressing
The Book upon her breast.
And the needle is at rest,
For her eyes are on the light-absorbing clouds
That gather in the west,
And her hands, uplifted, unaware are pressing
The Book upon her breast.
What is it she has done, this gentle maiden,
To entitle her to tears?—
Ah, feeble lies her father in his chamber,
And Annie has such fears
As scarcely could she bring herself to whisper
Into kindest angel's ears.
To entitle her to tears?—
Ah, feeble lies her father in his chamber,
And Annie has such fears
As scarcely could she bring herself to whisper
Into kindest angel's ears.
How still she sits! Scarce may you see her breathe!
And let your feet, I pray you, still be shod
With silence;—noiseless be as moth on flower,
Or earthworm in the sod;—
Intrude not on the sorrow that is seeking
The comfortings of God.
And let your feet, I pray you, still be shod
With silence;—noiseless be as moth on flower,
Or earthworm in the sod;—
Intrude not on the sorrow that is seeking
The comfortings of God.
| Poems by Henry Septimus Sutton | |