John Payne Poems

THE roofs are dreary with the drifted rime
And in the air a stillness as of death
Th'approach of some portentousness foresaith.
...

MARCH comes at last, the labouring lands to free.
Rude blusterer, with thy cloud-compelling blast,
The pining plains from cark of Winter past
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THE wild bird carolled all the April night,
Among the leafing limes, as who should say,
'Lovers, have heed; here cometh in your May,
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THE tale of wake is told; the stage is bare,
The curtain falls upon the ended play;
November's fogs arise, to hide away
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OCTOBER, May of the descending days,
Mid-Spring of Autumn, on the shortening stair
Of the year's eld abiding still and fair,
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HOW is the world of Summer's splendours shorn!
The rose has had its day; from weald and wold
Past is the blossom-pomp, the harvest-gold;
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I
BETWEEN the night-end and the break of day
An hour there is that from the thither shore
Of the dark river its enchantments frore
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Alack! ah who could the ill Christian be
That stole my pot away,
My pot of basil of Salern, from me?
'Twas thriv'n with many a spray
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A lark in the mesh of the tangled vine,
A bee that drowns in the flower-cup's wine,
A fly in the sunshine - such is man.
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NOT seldom, whilst the Winter yet is king,
Whilst yet the meads are mute and boughs are bare,
A stirring in the February air
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