Later Poems Part 22

The Ghost-yard of the Goldenrod

When the first silent frost has trod The ghost-yard of the goldenrod,

And laid the blight of his cold hand Upon the warm autumnal land,

And all things wait the subtle change That men call death, is it not strange

That I--without a care or need, Who only am an idle weed--

Should wait unmoved, so frail, so bold, The coming of the final cold!

Before the Snow

Now soon, ah, very soon, I know The trumpets of the north will blow, And the great winds will come to bring The pale, wild riders of the snow.

Darkening the sun with level flight, At arrowy speed, they will alight, Unnumbered as the desert sands, To bivouac on the edge of night.

Then I, within their somber ring, Shall hear a voice that seems to sing, Deep, deep within my tranquil heart, The valiant prophecy of spring.

Winter

When winter comes along the river line And Earth has put away her green attire, With all the pomp of her autumnal pride, The world is made a sanctuary old, Where Gothic trees uphold the arch of gray, And gaunt stone fences on the ridge's crest Stand like carved screens before a crimson shrine, Showing the sunset glory through the c.h.i.n.ks.

There, like a nun with frosty breath, the soul, Uplift in adoration, sees the world Transfigured to a temple of her Lord; While down the soft blue-shadowed aisles of snow Night, like a sacristan with silent step, Pa.s.ses to light the tapers of the stars.

A Winter Piece

Over the rim of a lacquered bowl, Where a cold blue water-color stands, I see the wintry breakers roll And heave their froth up the freezing sands.

Here in immunity safe and dull, Soul treads her circuit of trivial things.

There soul's brother, a shining gull, Dares the rough weather on dauntless wings.

Winter Streams

Now the little rivers go m.u.f.fled safely under snow,

And the winding meadow streams Murmur in their wintry dreams,

While a tinkling music wells Faintly from there icy bells,

Telling how their hearts are bold Though the very sun be cold.

Ah, but wait until the rain Comes a-sighing once again,

Sweeping softly from the Sound Over ridge and meadow ground!

Then the little streams will hear April calling far and near,--

Slip their snowy bands and run Sparkling in the welcome sun.

Winter Twilight

Along the wintry skyline, Crowning the rocky crest, Stands the bare screen of hardwood trees Against the saffron west,-- Its gray and purple network Of branching tracery Outspread upon the lucent air, Like weed within the sea.

The scarlet robe of autumn Renounced and put away, The mystic Earth is fairer still,-- A Puritan in gray.

The spirit of the winter, How tender, how austere!

Yet all the ardor of the spring And summer's dream are here.

Fear not, O timid lover, The touch of frost and rime!

This is the virtue that sustained The roses in their prime.

The anthem of the northwind Shall hallow thy despair, The benediction of the snow Be answer to thy prayer.

And now the star of evening That is the pilgrim's sign, Is lighted in the primrose dusk,-- A lamp before a shrine.

Peace fills the mighty minster, Tranquil and gray and old, And all the chancel of the west Is bright with paling gold.

A little wind goes sifting Along the meadow floor,-- Like steps of lovely penitents Who sighingly adore.

Then falls the twilight curtain, And fades the eerie light, And frost and silence turn the keys In the great doors of night.

The Twelfth Night Star

It is the bitter time of year When iron is the ground, With hasp and sheathing of black ice The forest lakes are bound, The world lies snugly under snow, Asleep without a sound.

All the night long in trooping squares The sentry stars go by, The silent and unwearying hosts That bear man company, And with their pure enkindling fires Keep vigils lone and high.

Through the dead hours before the dawn, When the frost snaps the sill, From chestnut-wooded ridge to sea The earth lies dark and still, Till one great silver planet shines Above the eastern hill.

It is the star of Gabriel, The herald of the Word In days when messengers of G.o.d With sons of men conferred, Who brought the tidings of great joy The watching shepherds heard;

The mystic light that moved to lead The wise of long ago, Out of the great East where they dreamed Of truths they could not know, To seek some good that should a.s.suage The world's most ancient woe.