Life is for gladness, not for mulish days Between the galling shafts of commonplace. See, now, the willow tassels all ablaze Against the background of the windy blue! And in the dusk the crocus glimmers through The footsteps of Persephone we trace. TO ANDREW CHATTO It is your thin, ungracious wine that runs Within a year of bottling, to your tongue, The noblest wine is somewhat harsh when young; Lay it aside for many moons and suns, Send it, if so you will, its "wander-year," A-battling with the ocean's storm and strife, Then open it, when ripe are wine and life, And see what mellow sunshine you have there. Here is another year to crown that head So full of years and honour, dear old friend, Whose wisdom makes a constant, quiet balm For tricks and trials of life, whose age doth blend Young-heartedness with philosophic calm, And sunshine on this generation shed. NOVEMBER There is a gleam of sunshine on the earth After so many weary days of rain, A break of yellowing clouds, which offers plain The sun's veiled disc (a very shadow-birth, But still the sun, with sun's November worth); The sky is of a Turner lived again, Such colours through the misty greyness gain They almost seem to touch with spring the earth. How should we not be glad, when this one day Out of the saddest of all months, appears Suddenly beautiful? A single ray Of sunlight strikes through cloud, and clears The whole drear countryside of grey; So may one word dispel a cloud of tears. TO A ROBIN IN DECEMBER In Paradise there is no sweeter song Than that thin music that the robin makes On short December afternoons, and takes The winter woods, with utterance frail, yet strong; Till all the barren fields, and ruined brakes, The flowerless gardens, and the hedges bare Dream of the spring, and all the rainy air Seems soft and mellow as the summer lakes. More precious than the treasures of the East, (Guarded by silver-footed antelope,) Or all the nightingales that haunt the grove Of Persian gardens; silver pipe of hope! That
Prev.
Back
Top