In winter when the dismal rain
Came down in slanting lines,
And Wind, that grand old harper, smote
His thunder-harp of pines,
A Poet sat in his antique room,
His lamp the valley kinged,
'Neath dry crusts of dead tongues he found
Truth, fresh and golden-winged.
When violets came and woods were green,
And larks did skyward dart,
A Love alit and white did sit,
Like an angel on his heart.
From his heart he unclasped his love
Amid the trembling trees,
And sent it to the Lady Blanche
On wingèd poesies.
The Lady Blanche was saintly fair,
Nor proud, but meek her look;
In her hazel eyes her thoughts lay clear
As pebbles in a brook.
Her father's veins ran noble blood,
His hall rose 'mid the trees;
Like a sunbeam she came and went
'Mong the white cottages.
The peasants thanked her with their tears,
When food and clothes were given,—
"This is a joy," the Lady said,
"Saints cannot taste in Heaven!"
They met—the Poet told his love,
His hopes, despairs, his pains,—
The Lady with her calm eyes mocked
The tumult in his veins.
He passed away—a fierce song leapt
From cloud of his despair,
As lightning, like a bright, wild beast,
Leaps from its thunder-lair.
He poured his frenzy forth in song,—
Bright heir of tears and praises!
Now resteth that unquiet heart
Beneath the quiet daisies.