Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, WINTER SCENERY, JANUARY, 1809, by MARY RUSSELL MITFORD


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

WINTER SCENERY, JANUARY, 1809, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: The dark sky lours: a crimson streak
Last Line: The daemon desolation reigns!
Subject(s): Desolation; Winter


The dark sky lours: a crimson streak
In vain the heavy clouds would break;
The lowing herds desert the plain,
Scatter'd is all the fleecy train;
The feather'd songsters all are gone,
The dear domestic bird alone,
The cheerful robin, seeks his food,
And breaks the death-like solitude:
For, save his notes, no earthly sound
Through the chill air, is heard around;

E'en she, whose playful fondness still
Attends my steps on dale or hill,
She, who still wears the victor blue,
Maria of the raven hue!
No longer seeks with frolic glee,
Where'er I roam, to follow me,
But shrinks within her shelter warm,
And hides in straw her graceful form.

Yet lovelier is the magic scene,
Than blooming summer's brightest green:
The icicles in crystal row
Suspended from the pent-house low,
O'er the luxuriant ivy fall,
Or glitter on the moss-grown wall;
The level lawn, in dazzling light,
Array'd in pure unsullied white,
Scarce marks, with undulating bend,
With its smooth edge, where waters blend.

Crown'd is each grove with vestal snow.
Whilst varied colors gleam below;
The holly's deeply burnish'd green,
With coral berries faintly seen,
The oak's rich leaves of saffron hue,
The tow'ring fir's dark misty blue,
Closer their mingling branches twine,
And through their brilliant burthen shine.

See on the pine the snow arise,
A tap'ring cone, it seeks the skies!
Or wreathes the rugged elm around!
Or bends the light broom to the ground!
Or in ethereal lustre gay,
Clothes the pale aspen's flexile spray!

And, still to fancy's eye more dear,
What strange fantastic forms appear!
High arches rise, abrupt and bright,
And gothic fret-work silv'ry light;
There frown dark pillars, slim and tall,
And there the mould'ring turrets fall!
But, emblem true of human joys,
Rais'd in an hour, an hour destroys;
Already has the brilliant ray
Melted the fairy scene away;
No fleecy whiteness decks the ground,
No glitt'ring frost work gleams around;
All, all are gone. The swollen flood
Spreads its stain'd waters to the wood;
Each tree, with snowy crest so fair,
That rose with gay fantastic air,
Now waves its dark boughs, rough and bare;
And o'er the hills, the groves, the plains,
The daemon Desolation reigns!





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