Harken! - the clouds mustered in dark -
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So painfully easing.
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Hush! - hearest ye the yew doting;
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Its years of yore in a mire,
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Each like a corpse within its grave;
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Wrought for us a yearn of lief;
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Tis not a lore of bale nor loathe;
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Harmony and aesthesia are its blisses;
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Ne'er ere hath it exist'd so sonorously -
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Jostl'd away the pale drape
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That us had been o'erhung -
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Tempt'd thy shutters to open
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And thus quench'd the hearth;
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Thou giv'st to misery all thou hast: the cold -
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With weal embrac'd the sprounting landscape
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Like a star of heaven in the broad daylight -
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This joy subdueth until it again waneth,
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Save the drooping winter of stalwart.
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-----------------
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Mire
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| Theatre Of Tragedy |
