BY the red chimney-pots the pigeons cower, With heads tucked in, to find what warmth they may; Swift the white motes are come in a glistening shower, And the blue brightness that unsealed the day Is lost in wreathing grey. Half hoping, and half doubting, small birds come And whistle on the taloned boughs; where still Pale apples swing, like masks that in old Rome The gardeners hung to warn each pilfering bill. But here worse gods shall kill. The shower convolves and drives: all the trees' arms Are whitened over till small birds well know What fate has bidden. Faint from lonely farms Guns speak like echoes of the croaking crow. How silent comes the snow! Now what shall warm the frost-burnt grape that clings To the green sapless vine? Poor budding rose And lavender's late blossom, get you wings To flee the death that in the winnow goes. Mute the cloaked village grows; Not a bird pipes; nor cockerel calls the tune, But underneath the ivied paling passes With all his hens. The church clock drones the noon; In the brown gaping grave the snow amasses, The thin wind shakes the grasses. To-day they bear the priest unto his rest Among his own, where he so long had willed. There he shall lie, time's winter in his breast, There the harsh tongue of malice shall be stilled, There toil's reward fulfilled. If only through the snow and stomped mould he Might hear the bells or horses' brasses ring, The lads at football still, the children's glee At slide; the rooks, the baaing lambs in spring, Even his enemies sing! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...GOOD FRIDAY, 1613. RIDING WESTWARD by JOHN DONNE TO MY HONOURED FRIEND DR. CHARLETON by JOHN DRYDEN SOMETIME by MAY LOUISE RILEY SMITH THE DOUBLE STANDARD by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS COMPENSATIONS by CHRISTOPHER BANNISTER |