Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, WINTER, by ANONYMOUS


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

WINTER, by                    
First Line: Thou dark-robed man with solemn pace
Last Line: Though angels sang when they had birth
Subject(s): Winter


THOU dark-robed man with solemn pace,
And mantle muffled round thy face,
Like the dim vision seen by Saul,
Upraised by spells from Death's dark hall;
Thou sad, small man, -- face thin and old,
Teeth set, and nose pinched blue and cold, --
Ne'er mind! Thy coat, so long and black,
And fitting round thee all so slack,
Has glorious spangles, and its stars
Are like a conqueror's fresh from wars.
Who wove it in Time's awful loom
With woof of glory, warp of gloom?
Jove's planet glitters on thy breast;
The morning star adorns thy crest;
The waxing or the waning moon
Clings to thy turban late or soon;
Orion's belt is thine, -- thy thigh
His jewelled sword hangs briefly by;
The Pleiades seven, the Gypsy's star,
Shine as thy shoulder-knots afar;
And the great Dog-star, bright, unknown,
Blazes beside thee like a throne.
Take heart! Thy coat, so long and black,
Sore worn, and fitting round thee slack,
Is broidered by the Northern Lights,
Those silvery arrows shot by sprites, --
Is powdered by the Milky Way
With awful pearls unknown to day,
Which well make up for all the hues
Proud Summer, bridegroom-like, may use.

Proud Summer, with his roses' sheen,
And dress of scarlet, blue, and green,
Floods us with such a sea of light
We miss the faint, far isles of Night,
And thoughtless dance, while he with lutes
Beguiles us or assists to fruits;
But like a shade from Spirit-land
Dim Winter beckons with his hand, --
He beckons; all things darker grow,
Save white-churned waves and wreathing snow
We pause; a chill creeps through our veins;
We dare not thank him for his pains;
We fear to follow, and we creep
To candle-light, to cards, to sleep.

Yet when we follow him, how deep
The secret he has got to keep!
How wonderful! how passing grand!
For, peering through his storms, there stand
The eternal cities of the sky,
With stars like street-lamps hung on high;
No angel yet can sum their worth,
Though angels sang when they had birth.





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