Then sounded the blast of a trumpet, like the cry of a soul in pain, Crashing of thunder-bolts warring with the hosts of the scourging rain.
Till when the raging battalions swept on with resistless sway, Prone in the path of the tempest the pride of the orchard lay!
“O beautiful buds close folded, that never will bloom!” I cried, “Alas for the unfulfilment, alas for the bliss denied!”
But filling my arms with the branches, I carried them in, where the fire Blazed on the glowing hearth-stone like a sacrificial pyre.
And into the flames I tossed them, when before my startled eyes, As in a miraculous vision, shone a marvel, a surprise.
In the heart of the fiery splendor the pale buds, one by one, Opened to heat of the burning as to kiss of the summer sun!
AT THE FEAST
“And the Lord of the Castle is Time.”
When the hour has come and the servants wait The tramp of steeds at the castle gate, When the lamps aglow in the banquet-hall Like a thousand stars burn over all, When the board is spread and the feast is set, And the dew on the roses lingers yet, Whom shall the Master summon To sit at his right hand?
Let the music soar to the vaulted roof, Let the flute-notes swell, alow, aloof, While chief and retainer alike await The Lord of the Castle who cometh late; The guests are bidden, the red wine flows, But not the wisest among them knows Whom the Master shall summon To sit at his right hand!
For the Lord of the Castle, who cometh late, When he comes, at length, in pomp and state, And with glitter of mail, and clang of sword, Strides to his place at the head of the board, Ofttimes reverses the order set, Nor beckons to crown or coronet! Whom he will the Master summons To sit at his right hand!