OCTOBER DUSK. O THE saffrons and the purples of the wild October eves, When the gold of autumn withers, and the wind plucks off the leaves. When the grey drifts slowly deepen, losing all their inward light, When the dark night, dull and leaden, presses on the dimming sight. Cold the last night's rain is lying in the furrows bright and still, Glistening in between the ridges, that the dead leaves choke and fill. Ghastly glimmers, of weird whiteness, streak between the ashen grey, Clefts of crimson, pale green lustres, bar the shroud of dying day, U Like the rags of purple splendour, dropping from a mummy king Now the night wind, rising slowly, moans, blaspheming God and spring. Stifling darkness, black and solid, gathers round the dim, white road, Damp oppression, as of evil, crushing man beneath the load. Still from dead leaves in the silence now and then a twitter's borne, As of lone bird chilled, yet dreaming of the April and the dawn. THE RIDE TO THE SHRINE. FIRST the herald's gilded show; Gilded housings shining out Through the dust that wraps the rout; So our band of pilgrims went To A'Becket's shrine in Kent. Shields that with their burn and blaze All the peasants' eyes amaze; Starred and tongued with herald gold, Blood-red crosses manifold, Bars of azure, spots of sable, Silver tears on purple field, Bezants, each one like a sun, Rare devices, strange and quaint, Legends, too, so full of pride, Blazoned letters, bright and wide; On one pennon, blowing free, "Strike "'s the only word I see; "Try me," in defiance writThere was lion's wrath in it; "I may break, but never bend," On a flag from end to end. "God alone," another bore Then the abbot with his ring, Blubber lip and leering eye, Fat hands clasped upon his breast. |