TO
WINTER
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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, |
5 |
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,
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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,
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And
upon their sunward sides
Shines and flushes rosily
To the chill pink morning sky.
Skilful artists thou employest,
And in chastest beauty joyest,—
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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,
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As
in the bord’ring realms are throbbing,
Hast thou, Winter?—Liquid sobbing
Brooks, and brawling waterfalls,
Whose responsive-voicéd calls
Clothe with harmony the hills,
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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,
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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
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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 |
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For
thy snaréd soul’s delight,
’Less, when thou dost lie at night
’Neath the star-sown heavens bright,
To thy sin-unchokéd ears
Some dim harmonies may pierce |
50 |
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. |
55 |
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 |
60 |
For
the melodies it lacketh
’Neath thy sway, or cannot hear
For its mortal-cloakéd ear.
And full thirstily it longeth
For the beauty that belongeth
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65 |
To
the Autumn’s ripe fulfilling;—
Heapéd orchard-baskets spilling
’Neath the laughter-shaken trees;
Fields of buckwheat full of bees,
Girt with ancient groves of fir
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Shod
with berried juniper;
Beech-nuts mid their russet leaves;
Heavy-headed nodding sheaves;
Clumps of luscious blackberries;
Purple-cluster’d traceries
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Of
the cottage climbing-vines;
Scarlet-fruited eglantines;
Maple forests all aflame
When thy sharp-tongued legates came.
Ruler with an iron hand
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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
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In
lush crimsons thro’ the leaves,
And a gorgeous legend weaves. |
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