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Winter is fallen early On the house of Stare; Birds in reverberating flocks Haunt its ancestral box; Bright are the plenteous berries In clusters in the air. Still is the fountain's music, The dark pool icy still, Whereon a small and sanguine sun Floats in a mirror on, Into a West of crimson, From a South of daffodil. 'Tis strange to see young children In such a wintry house; Like rabbits' on the frozen snow Their tell-tale footprints go; Their laughter rings like timbrels 'Neath evening ominous: Their small and heightened faces Like wine-red winter buds; Their frolic bodies gentle as Flakes in the air that pass, Frail as the twirling petal From the briar of the woods. Above them silence lours, Still as an arctic sea; Light fails; night falls; the wintry moon Glitters; the crocus soon Will ope grey and distracted On earth's austerity: Thick mystery, wild peril, Law like an iron rod: Yet sport they on in Spring's attire, Each with his tiny fire Blown to a core of ardour By the awful breath of God. |