SWEET with the scents of the summer, White with the dew and the sun, Wee as the robes of the fairies, She folded them one by one. Royally fair was the raiment, Though none but herself might see How the heart with the hand had labored For the Prince who was yet to be! Into those tiny garments Was more than of needle wrought— Hours of loving fancies, Beautiful flights of thought. By lane and road were burning, In splendor of crimson dyes, Maple and elm and sumach, Shaming the sunset skies. She smiled from her chamber window: "Ah, fade, bright leaves!" she said, "For I 'll be glad with my baby, When all the leaves are dead!" Cold is the heaven above her, Cloudy and dark the day, As she looks again in sorrow That is slow to pass away. Useless the treasures of linen, And the cobweb frosts of lace; Her babe on mother's bosom Found briefest resting-place. All night she hears the north wind, She feels the rain and the snow; Whenever they fall on her darling, Over her heart they go. Sleep hath no fetter to bind her, Ever its spell will break; At the dream of a touch like a roseleaf, The grief returns to ache. Comfort her not with the angels, Since—changing her day to night— Some pitiless angel carried Her firstborn out of her sight! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FAREWELL, UNKIST by THOMAS WYATT PRAYER AFTER YOUTH by MAXWELL ANDERSON PREFACE TO ERINNA'S POEMS by ASCLEPIADES OF SAMOS THE MAUSOLEUM by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN HOMESICKNESS by HENRY BELLAMANN LORD FINCHLEY by HILAIRE BELLOC IN VINCULIS; SONNETS WRITTEN IN AN IRISH PRISON: THE COURT OF PENANCE by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT THE LOVE SONNETS OF PROTEUS: 113, TO ONE WITH HIS SONNETS by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT |