 | Lauds |  |
34
WINTER
This is the beautiful time of lying fallow,
The last leaf falls from the delicate trees;
Holy and still, it is the time of All-Hallow:
A million voices are whispering secrecies.
Under the earth's brown breast the seedlings quicken,
Stir in the darkness: Earth is fruitful, conceives.
Under the milky bosom the voices waken:
Ask “Is it time?” in the quiet under the leaves.
The last leaf falls from the delicate trees;
Holy and still, it is the time of All-Hallow:
A million voices are whispering secrecies.
Under the earth's brown breast the seedlings quicken,
Stir in the darkness: Earth is fruitful, conceives.
Under the milky bosom the voices waken:
Ask “Is it time?” in the quiet under the leaves.
These are the days of Death when the Life lies chilly,
Stark in the garden tomb, the death on its eyes.
The world waits in the pauses, solemn and stilly,
Watching the East for the Third Day's dawn in the skies.
There is no death: it is Life that lies in the prison
Stirring under the swaddling-bands and the stone.
The garden waits in a hush till the Sun be risen
With songs of the thrush and the daffodil trumpet blown.
Stark in the garden tomb, the death on its eyes.
The world waits in the pauses, solemn and stilly,
Watching the East for the Third Day's dawn in the skies.
There is no death: it is Life that lies in the prison
Stirring under the swaddling-bands and the stone.
The garden waits in a hush till the Sun be risen
With songs of the thrush and the daffodil trumpet blown.
35
These be the days, grey as a grey gull's feather,
Silent and holy, the finger laid on the lip;
Of stripped exquisite trees and the grey South weather.
She is not dead, God's daughter, she is asleep.
The bare woods are alive with a million voices:
They have shed their leaves on her eyes and covered her face.
The child stirs by her heart: she feels and rejoices
Under the leaves, asleep in the sleeper's place.
Silent and holy, the finger laid on the lip;
Of stripped exquisite trees and the grey South weather.
She is not dead, God's daughter, she is asleep.
The bare woods are alive with a million voices:
They have shed their leaves on her eyes and covered her face.
The child stirs by her heart: she feels and rejoices
Under the leaves, asleep in the sleeper's place.
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