CVIII. TO WINTER.
Reading edition
CVIII. TO WINTER.
Charles G. D. Roberts.—1859-
Ruling with an iron hand O'er the intermediate land 'Twixt the plains of rich completeness, And the realms of budding sweetness, Winter! from thy crystal throne, With a keenness all thy own Dartest thou, through gleaming air, O'er the glorious barren glare Of thy sunlit wildernesses, Thine undazzled level glances, Where thy minions' silver tresses Stream among their icy lances; While thy universal breathing, Frozen to a radiant swathing For the trees, their bareness hides, And upon their sunward sides Shines and flushes rosily To the chill pink morning sky. Skilful artists thou employest, And in chastest beauty joyest— Forms most delicate, pure, and clear, Frost-caught starbeams fallen sheer In the night, and woven here In jewel-fretted tapestries. But what magic melodies, As in the bord'ring realms are throbbing, Hast thou, Winter?—Liquid sobbing Brooks, and brawling waterfalls, Whose responsive-voicèd calls Clothe with harmony the hills, Gurgling meadow-threading rills, Lakelets' lisping wavelets lapping Round a flock of wild ducks napping, And the rapturous-noted wooings, And the molten-throated cooings, Of the amorous multitudes Flashing through the dusky woods, When a veering wind hath blown A glare of sudden daylight down?— Naught of these!—And fewer notes Hath the wind alone that floats Over naked trees and snows; Half its minstrelsy it owes To its orchestra of leaves. Ay! weak the meshes music weaves For thy snarèd soul's delight, 'Less, when thou dost lie at night 'Neath the star-sown heavens bright, To thy sin-unchokèd ears Some dim harmonies may pierce From the high-consulting spheres: 'Less the silent sunrise sing Like a vibrant silver string When its prison'd splendors first O'er the crusted snow-fields burst. But thy days the silence keep, Save for grosbeaks' feeble cheep, Or for snow-birds' busy twitter When thy breath is very bitter.
So my spirit often acheth For the melodies it lacketh 'Neath thy sway, or cannot hear For its mortal-cloakèd ear. And full thirstily it longeth For the beauty that belongeth To the Autumn's ripe fulfilling;— Heapèd orchard-baskets spilling 'Neath the laughter-shaken trees; Fields of buckwheat full of bees, Girt with ancient groves of fir Shod with berried juniper; Beech-nuts mid their russet leaves; Heavy-headed nodding sheaves; Clumps of luscious blackberries; Purple-cluster'd traceries Of the cottage climbing-vines; Scarlet-fruited eglantines; Maple forests all aflame When thy sharp-tongued legates came.
Ruler with an iron hand O'er an intermediate land! Glad am I thy realm is border'd By the plains more richly order'd,— Stock'd with sweeter-glowing forms,— Where the prison'd brightness warms In lush crimsons through the leaves, And a gorgeous legend weaves.