Lines on his Twenty-Third Birthday
LAST evening's huge lax clouds of turbid white
Grew dark and louring, burthened with the rain
Which that long wind monotonous all night
Swept clashing loud through Dreamland's still domain,
Until my spirit in fatigue's despite
Was driven to weary wakefulness again:
With such wild dirge and ceaseless streaming tears
Died out the last of all my ill-used years.
The morn his risen pure and fresh and keen;
Its perfect vault of bright blue heaven spreads bare
Above the earth's wide laughter twinkling green.
The sun, long climbing up with lurid glare
Athwart the storm-rack's rent and hurrying screen,
Leapt forth at dawn to breathe this stainless air;
The strong west wind still streams on full and high,
Inspiring fresher life through earth and sky.
Yon hazeless river flashes silver signs
Of where it flows; how delicate and clear
The distant hills curve far their grey-blue lines,
Steadfast amidst the rushing atmosphere,
With every blade distinct the green grass shines,
Untouched by frost; those old trees dark or sere,
Swaying and soughing in the lifeful dawn,
Have every leaf and twig distinctly drawn.
This day my own particular year has birth;
The general year is very old to-day:
Yet, with what healthful life o'er heaven and earth
The death-bound monarch holdeth steadfast sway!
Not too austere for much of hearty mirth
And energetic pleasure, nor so grey
But that he still can deck himself with flowers;-
Would that like his could be my dying hours!
Still dew-pearled fuchsias shine like pendent gems,
While some lie purely on the deep-dark mould
Beneath their glossy leaves and ruddy stems;
The thick chrysanthemums range white and cold;
Of all its wealth of marvellous anadems,
That gleamed amidst their fruits of orange gold
Glowing red-hearted in the Autumn sun,
The passion-flower has still for me kept one.
I pace the garden in this genial morn,
And meditate the dirge of my dead year,-
With even less of grief than sharp self-scorn.
The retrospect in truth brings little cheer;
As if of one long-tired, who stares forlorn
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poem by James Thomson
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