CALL no man happy until he has stood Breasting a wind so brave, in a fluttering wood Of leaves and rain and leaves. In this high thin Colony of earth ousting a patch of heaven, Fir trees now are bewailing the dead year, Nodding, shivering, kissing, shuddering apart, Above the catafalque where she is lying Rich-decked in burning colours of decay— The tawny tapestries of oak, the flame Of beech, and birches' lemon patens on Pennons falling from chestnuts thinning ever; And purpled loops of berry round the bier, And stinted bracken puffing tongues of heat; While bronze-greaved giants at distance stand on guard, Like grave Crusaders round the Holy Tomb. Here the year lies. And still to cover her Litigant leaves are wrangling as they fall, And jostle for precedence in the grave; Only one birch holds all her leaves, like hair Decking forgotten beauties in raw light. Here the year lies, perfect in funeral, And English woods falling to honour her, While the slow acrid smoke of new-lit fires Prophetically drifting over all, Makes sense a happiness, and this funeral No sorrow, but a lyric festival. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE WINDHOVER: TO CHRIST OUR LORD by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS PORTRAIT BY A NEIGHBOR by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY THE QUESTION by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY ROMEO AND JULIET by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH IF YOU PLAY A GAME OF CHANCE by WILLIAM BLAKE THE MATCH by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN |