Septuagesima

Now all the windows with frost are blinded,As punctual day with greedy smileLifts like a Cyclops evil-mindedHis ruddy eyeball over the isle.

In an hour 'tis paled, in an hour ascendedA dazzling light in the cloudless grey.Steel is the ice; the snow unblendedIs trod to dust on the white highway.

The lambkins frisk; the shepherd is meltingDrink for the ewes with a fire of straw:The red flames leap at the wild air peltingBitterly thro' the leafless shaw.

Around, from many a village steepleThe sabbath-bells hum over the snow:I give a blessing to parson and peopleAcross the fields as away I go.

Over the hills and over the meadowsGay is my way till day be done:Blue as the heaven are all the shadows,And every light is gold in the sun.

The sea keeps not the Sabbath day,His waves come rolling evermore;His noisy toil grindeth the shore,And all the cliff is drencht with spray.

Here as we sit, my love and I,Under the pine upon the hill,The sadness of the clouded sky,The bitter wind, the gloomy roar,The seamew's melancholy cryWith loving fancy suit but ill.

We talk of moons and cooling suns,Of geologic time and tide,The eternal sluggards that abideWhile our fair love so swiftly runs,

Of nature that doth half consentThat man should guess her dreary schemeLest he should live too well contentIn his fair house of mirth and dream:

Whose labour irks his ageing heart,His heart that wearies of desire,Being so fugitive a partOf what so slowly must expire.

She in her agelong toil and carePersistent, wearies not nor stays,Mocking alike hope and despair.

Days, that the thought of grief refuse,Days that are one with human art,Worthy of the Virgilian muse,Fit for the gaiety of Mozart.

Riding adown the country lanesOne day in spring,Heavy at heart with all the painsOf man's imagining:--

The mist was not yet melted quiteInto the sky:The small round sun was dazzling white,The merry larks sang high:

The grassy northern slopes were laidIn sparkling dew,Out of the slow-retreating shadeTurning from sleep anew:

Deep in the sunny vale a burnRan with the lane,O'erhung with ivy, moss and fernIt laughed in joyful strain:

And primroses shot long and lushTheir cluster'd cream;Robin and wren and amorous thrushCarol'd above the stream:

The stillness of the lenten airCall'd into soundThe motions of all life that wereIn field and farm around:

So fair it was, so sweet and bright,The jocund SpringAwoke in me the old delightOf man's imagining,

Riding adown the country lanes:The larks sang high.--O heart! for all thy griefs and painsThou shalt be loth to die.