Voice From The Palace

Couldst thou, O north wind, coming From the deep bosom of the moaning valley, Or, wandering in the aisles of songful pines, Or through a lonely cloister's corridors, Chant to me in a thousand sounds— The piping of reeds, the roaring of wild beasts, And cries of human woe! That would be my delight, the while I know On yon cold height there lies the winter's snow.

A shower of white darkness Fills all the sleepy air; the snowy plain Fades into the horizon far away. Meanwhile, the sun's great disk grows faintly red As wearily it sinks behind the clouds, Staring as 'twere a lidless human eye. No breeze, no breath among the hills is stirred, Nor traveller's voice, nor song of children heard,

But the loud crash of branches Too heavily bent by burden of the snow, And sharp explosions of the cracking ice, Arcadia sing and Zephyrus invite To your sweet company in meadows fair. Now nature's mute and haughty horror doth Add zest to pleasure! Come, Eurilla, make The drowsy coals a livelier sparkle take!

On me let them be casting A light serenely flashing, such as spring Doth carry with her wheresoever she goeth. The mouthing actor No more the boxes heed, when 'mid the sight Of all that crowded brilliancy and beauty, And perfumed tresses, and enwreathéd flowers, There comes the scent of April's fruitful showers.