When trees have lost remembrance of the leaves that spring bequeathes to summer, autumn weaves and loosens mournfully -- this dirge, to whom does it belong -- who treads the hidden loom? When peaks are overwhelmed with snow and ice, and clouds with crepe bedeck and shroud the skies -- nor any sun or moon or star, it seems, can wedge a path of light through such black dreams -- all motion cold, and dead all trace thereof: What sudden shock below, or spark above, starts torrents raging down till rivers surge -- that aid the first small crocus to emerge? The earth will turn and spin and fairly soar, that couldn't move a tortoise foot before -- and planets permeate the atmosphere till misery depart and mystery clear! -- And yet, so insignificant a hearse? -- who gave it the endurance so to brave such elements? -- shove winter down a grave? -- and then lead on again the universe? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE JESTER'S SERMON by GEORGE WALTER THORNBURY IN THE WATER by JOHANNA AMBROSIUS AUGUST SUNSET OVER LAKE CHAMPLAIN by FRANK A. BALCH STANZAS TO A LADY by JOHN CODRINGTON BAMPFYLDE SONG by WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE TWO SEASONS by CLARENCE BLENDON BURLEIGH A DEDICATION TO GAVIN HAMILTON by ROBERT BURNS |