Poetry Archives

The wintry sun was pale
 On hill and hedge;
The wind smote with its flail
 The seeded sedge;
High up above the world,
 New taught to fly,
The withered leaves were hurled
 About the sky;
And there, through death and dearth,
 It went and came,—
The Glory of the earth
 That hath no name.

I know not what it is;
 I only know
It quivers in the bliss
 Where roses blow,
That on the winter’s breath
 It broods in space,
And o’er the face of death
 I see its face,
And start and stand between
 Delight and dole,
As though mine eyes had seen
 A living Soul.

And I have followed it,
 As thou hast done,
Where April shadows flit
 Beneath the sun;
In dawn and dusk and star,
 In joy and fear,
Have seen its glory far
 And felt it near,
And dared recall his name
 Who stood unshod
Before a fireless flame,
 And called it God.