It is the day when he was born, A bitter day that early sank Behind a purple-frosty bank Of vapor, leaving night forlorn. The time admits not flowers or leaves To deck the banquet. Fiercely flies The blast of North and East, and ice Makes daggers at the sharpen'd eaves, And bristles all the brakes and thorns To you hard crescent, as she hangs Above the wood which grides and clangs Its leafless ribs and iron horns Together, in the drifts that pass To darken on the rolling brine That breaks the coast. But fetch the wine, Arrange the board and brim the glass; Bring in great logs and let them lie, To make a solid core of heat; Be cheerful-minded, talk and treat Of all things even as he were by; We keep the day. With festal cheer, With books and music, surely we Will drink to him, whate'er he be, And sing the songs he loved to hear. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A LETTER TO HER HUSBAND, ABSENT UPON PUBLIC EMPLOYMENT by ANNE BRADSTREET THE NETHERLANDS by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE RETALIATION by OLIVER GOLDSMITH THE MILKING-MAID by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI ODE TO THE WEST WIND by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY SOUL, WHEREFORE FRET THEE? by GERTRUDE BLOEDE THE LOVE SONNETS OF PROTEUS: 40. FAREWELL TO JULIET (2) by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT |