15The north wind came up yesternightWith the new year’s full moon,And rising as she gained her height,Grew to a tempest soon.Yet found he not on heaven’s faceA task of cloud to clear;There was no speck that he might chaseOff the blue hemisphere,Nor vapour from the land to drive:The frost-bound country heldNought motionable or alive,That ’gainst his wrath rebelled.There scarce was hanging in the woodA shrivelled leaf to reave;No bud had burst its swathing hoodThat he could rend or grieve:Only the tall tree-skeletons,Where they were shadowed all,Wavered a little on the stones,And on the white church-wall.—Like as an artist in his mood,Who reckons all as nought,So he may quickly paint his nude,Unutterable thought:So Nature in a frenzied hourBy day or night will showDim indications of the power,That doometh man to woe.Ah, many have my visions been,And some I know full well:I would that all that I have seenWere fit for speech to tell.—And by the churchyard as I came,It seemed my spirit passedInto a land that hath no name,Grey, melancholy and vast;Where nothing comes: but Memory,The widowed queen of Death,Reigns, and with fixed, sepulchral eyeAll slumber banisheth.Each grain of writhen dust, that drapesThat sickly, staring shore,Its old chaotic change of shapesRemembers evermore.And ghosts of cities long decayed,And ruined shrines of FateGather the paths, that Time hath madeFoolish and desolate.Nor winter there hath hope of spring,Nor the pale night of day,Since the old king with scorpion stingHath done himself away.The morn was calm; the wind’s last breathHad fal’n: in solemn hushThe golden moon went down beneathThe dawning’s crimson flush.
15The north wind came up yesternightWith the new year’s full moon,And rising as she gained her height,Grew to a tempest soon.Yet found he not on heaven’s faceA task of cloud to clear;There was no speck that he might chaseOff the blue hemisphere,Nor vapour from the land to drive:The frost-bound country heldNought motionable or alive,That ’gainst his wrath rebelled.There scarce was hanging in the woodA shrivelled leaf to reave;No bud had burst its swathing hoodThat he could rend or grieve:Only the tall tree-skeletons,Where they were shadowed all,Wavered a little on the stones,And on the white church-wall.—Like as an artist in his mood,Who reckons all as nought,So he may quickly paint his nude,Unutterable thought:So Nature in a frenzied hourBy day or night will showDim indications of the power,That doometh man to woe.Ah, many have my visions been,And some I know full well:I would that all that I have seenWere fit for speech to tell.—And by the churchyard as I came,It seemed my spirit passedInto a land that hath no name,Grey, melancholy and vast;Where nothing comes: but Memory,The widowed queen of Death,Reigns, and with fixed, sepulchral eyeAll slumber banisheth.Each grain of writhen dust, that drapesThat sickly, staring shore,Its old chaotic change of shapesRemembers evermore.And ghosts of cities long decayed,And ruined shrines of FateGather the paths, that Time hath madeFoolish and desolate.Nor winter there hath hope of spring,Nor the pale night of day,Since the old king with scorpion stingHath done himself away.The morn was calm; the wind’s last breathHad fal’n: in solemn hushThe golden moon went down beneathThe dawning’s crimson flush.
The north wind came up yesternightWith the new year’s full moon,And rising as she gained her height,Grew to a tempest soon.Yet found he not on heaven’s faceA task of cloud to clear;There was no speck that he might chaseOff the blue hemisphere,Nor vapour from the land to drive:The frost-bound country heldNought motionable or alive,That ’gainst his wrath rebelled.There scarce was hanging in the woodA shrivelled leaf to reave;No bud had burst its swathing hoodThat he could rend or grieve:Only the tall tree-skeletons,Where they were shadowed all,Wavered a little on the stones,And on the white church-wall.—Like as an artist in his mood,Who reckons all as nought,So he may quickly paint his nude,Unutterable thought:So Nature in a frenzied hourBy day or night will showDim indications of the power,That doometh man to woe.Ah, many have my visions been,And some I know full well:I would that all that I have seenWere fit for speech to tell.—And by the churchyard as I came,It seemed my spirit passedInto a land that hath no name,Grey, melancholy and vast;Where nothing comes: but Memory,The widowed queen of Death,Reigns, and with fixed, sepulchral eyeAll slumber banisheth.Each grain of writhen dust, that drapesThat sickly, staring shore,Its old chaotic change of shapesRemembers evermore.And ghosts of cities long decayed,And ruined shrines of FateGather the paths, that Time hath madeFoolish and desolate.Nor winter there hath hope of spring,Nor the pale night of day,Since the old king with scorpion stingHath done himself away.The morn was calm; the wind’s last breathHad fal’n: in solemn hushThe golden moon went down beneathThe dawning’s crimson flush.
The north wind came up yesternightWith the new year’s full moon,And rising as she gained her height,Grew to a tempest soon.Yet found he not on heaven’s faceA task of cloud to clear;There was no speck that he might chaseOff the blue hemisphere,Nor vapour from the land to drive:The frost-bound country heldNought motionable or alive,That ’gainst his wrath rebelled.There scarce was hanging in the woodA shrivelled leaf to reave;No bud had burst its swathing hoodThat he could rend or grieve:Only the tall tree-skeletons,Where they were shadowed all,Wavered a little on the stones,And on the white church-wall.—Like as an artist in his mood,Who reckons all as nought,So he may quickly paint his nude,Unutterable thought:So Nature in a frenzied hourBy day or night will showDim indications of the power,That doometh man to woe.Ah, many have my visions been,And some I know full well:I would that all that I have seenWere fit for speech to tell.—And by the churchyard as I came,It seemed my spirit passedInto a land that hath no name,Grey, melancholy and vast;Where nothing comes: but Memory,The widowed queen of Death,Reigns, and with fixed, sepulchral eyeAll slumber banisheth.Each grain of writhen dust, that drapesThat sickly, staring shore,Its old chaotic change of shapesRemembers evermore.And ghosts of cities long decayed,And ruined shrines of FateGather the paths, that Time hath madeFoolish and desolate.Nor winter there hath hope of spring,Nor the pale night of day,Since the old king with scorpion stingHath done himself away.The morn was calm; the wind’s last breathHad fal’n: in solemn hushThe golden moon went down beneathThe dawning’s crimson flush.
The north wind came up yesternightWith the new year’s full moon,And rising as she gained her height,Grew to a tempest soon.Yet found he not on heaven’s faceA task of cloud to clear;There was no speck that he might chaseOff the blue hemisphere,Nor vapour from the land to drive:The frost-bound country heldNought motionable or alive,That ’gainst his wrath rebelled.There scarce was hanging in the woodA shrivelled leaf to reave;No bud had burst its swathing hoodThat he could rend or grieve:Only the tall tree-skeletons,Where they were shadowed all,Wavered a little on the stones,And on the white church-wall.
The north wind came up yesternight
With the new year’s full moon,
And rising as she gained her height,
Grew to a tempest soon.
Yet found he not on heaven’s face
A task of cloud to clear;
There was no speck that he might chase
Off the blue hemisphere,
Nor vapour from the land to drive:
The frost-bound country held
Nought motionable or alive,
That ’gainst his wrath rebelled.
There scarce was hanging in the wood
A shrivelled leaf to reave;
No bud had burst its swathing hood
That he could rend or grieve:
Only the tall tree-skeletons,
Where they were shadowed all,
Wavered a little on the stones,
And on the white church-wall.
—Like as an artist in his mood,Who reckons all as nought,So he may quickly paint his nude,Unutterable thought:So Nature in a frenzied hourBy day or night will showDim indications of the power,That doometh man to woe.Ah, many have my visions been,And some I know full well:I would that all that I have seenWere fit for speech to tell.—
—Like as an artist in his mood,
Who reckons all as nought,
So he may quickly paint his nude,
Unutterable thought:
So Nature in a frenzied hour
By day or night will show
Dim indications of the power,
That doometh man to woe.
Ah, many have my visions been,
And some I know full well:
I would that all that I have seen
Were fit for speech to tell.—
And by the churchyard as I came,It seemed my spirit passedInto a land that hath no name,Grey, melancholy and vast;Where nothing comes: but Memory,The widowed queen of Death,Reigns, and with fixed, sepulchral eyeAll slumber banisheth.
And by the churchyard as I came,
It seemed my spirit passed
Into a land that hath no name,
Grey, melancholy and vast;
Where nothing comes: but Memory,
The widowed queen of Death,
Reigns, and with fixed, sepulchral eye
All slumber banisheth.
Each grain of writhen dust, that drapesThat sickly, staring shore,Its old chaotic change of shapesRemembers evermore.And ghosts of cities long decayed,And ruined shrines of FateGather the paths, that Time hath madeFoolish and desolate.Nor winter there hath hope of spring,Nor the pale night of day,Since the old king with scorpion stingHath done himself away.
Each grain of writhen dust, that drapes
That sickly, staring shore,
Its old chaotic change of shapes
Remembers evermore.
And ghosts of cities long decayed,
And ruined shrines of Fate
Gather the paths, that Time hath made
Foolish and desolate.
Nor winter there hath hope of spring,
Nor the pale night of day,
Since the old king with scorpion sting
Hath done himself away.
The morn was calm; the wind’s last breathHad fal’n: in solemn hushThe golden moon went down beneathThe dawning’s crimson flush.
The morn was calm; the wind’s last breath
Had fal’n: in solemn hush
The golden moon went down beneath
The dawning’s crimson flush.