Wide is the arch of the night, blue spangled with fire, From wizened edge to edge of the shrivelled-up earth, Where the chords of the dark are as tense as the strings of a lyre Strung by the fingers of silence ere sound had birth, With far-off, alien echoes of morning and mirth, That reach the tuned ear of the spirit, beaten upon By the soundless tides of the wonder and glory of dawn.
The stars have faded and blurred in the spaces of night, And over the snow-fringed edges wakens the morn, Pallid and heatless, lifting its lustreless light Over the skeleton woodlands and stretches forlorn, Touching with pallor the forests, storm-haggard and torn; Till out of the earth’s edge the winter-god rises acold, And strikes on the iron of the month with finger of gold.
Then down the whole harp of the morning a vibration rings, Thrilling the heart of the dull earth with throbbings and dreams Of far-blown odours and music of long-vanished Springs; Till the lean, stalled cattle low for the lapping of streams, And the clamorous cock, to the south, where his dunghill steams, Looks the sun in the eye, and prophesies, hopeful and clear, The stir in the breast of the wrinkled, bleak rime of the year.
THE LAST RIDE.
It seems his soul had lived that moment before, when he should come to the dread place.
I knew of it ages before, Yea, it seemed that the years knew it too; That I should come to that shore, Where the foam and the wild waters flew- Where the winds and the bleak night blew;— And the name of that place, No More.
That he and she and death should ride together.
I knew of it ages ago, That I should thunder that ride, With her and the night for my woe— With her and death by my side— Her and her pitiful pride;— And the long hours whose shudd’ring flow