 | Ghost-bereft |  |
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A WET EVENING
(Lady Day in Harvest, co. Kerry.)
The silvern circle of this summer lake,
Each ripple's curl a petal of mother-o'-pearl,
Curves iron-grim, since ruffling winds awake,
And tented mists unfurl.
The kingly shadow of the mountain-wall,
That purple and gold flung down with every fold
Across the crystal floor, is vanished all
In greyness blank and cold.
Its lifted peak, that while clear skies o'ershone,
With hyacinth crest their bluebell awning broke,
Stoops faintly, grown an old wan-visaged crone
Huddled in her hodden cloak:
Far, far to seek the shining, lost and flown,
As yester-even's smoke.
Each ripple's curl a petal of mother-o'-pearl,
Curves iron-grim, since ruffling winds awake,
And tented mists unfurl.
The kingly shadow of the mountain-wall,
That purple and gold flung down with every fold
Across the crystal floor, is vanished all
In greyness blank and cold.
Its lifted peak, that while clear skies o'ershone,
With hyacinth crest their bluebell awning broke,
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Huddled in her hodden cloak:
Far, far to seek the shining, lost and flown,
As yester-even's smoke.
Yet if to-morrow beam through amber rift,
How swiftly bright shall all flash back on sight!
Still water's sheen, high slopes that glint and shift
With sudden lawns of light.
Only in small chequered fields, begun to glow
With burning bloom of haulm and ear and plume,
The glory, blurred away and stricken low,
What torch shall re-illume?
Storm-tangled, drenched, tossed dank on black peat-mire,
Foam-flame of feathery gold—ah, wind and rain
That now conspire, forbear our hearts' desire,
And lest our year-long hope lie quelled and slain,
No spark be quenched save that the worlds' Hearth-fire
With morn may kindle again.
How swiftly bright shall all flash back on sight!
Still water's sheen, high slopes that glint and shift
With sudden lawns of light.
Only in small chequered fields, begun to glow
With burning bloom of haulm and ear and plume,
The glory, blurred away and stricken low,
What torch shall re-illume?
Storm-tangled, drenched, tossed dank on black peat-mire,
124
That now conspire, forbear our hearts' desire,
And lest our year-long hope lie quelled and slain,
No spark be quenched save that the worlds' Hearth-fire
With morn may kindle again.
| Ghost-bereft | |