Classic Poem

I

O cypress black, that standest out alone
against the limpid sky, o'er tangled fen,
where are rough thistles and the wee snake's tone,

in thee full oft, when the ripe mulberries gleam,
the children hear a secret whispering then,
as of a nest that in thy heart doth dream.

Thy birds are gone, and softly thou dost sing,
while the mute shadows ever onward turn
in the dim field, as if within the ring
of stumps, O solitary tree, they sought an urn.

II

Less long the days, and each day less is seen
the shadow, seeking, restless in the sun;
the sun is cold, and pallid the serene.

Each evening, shadow earlier enters shade,
shade where the stars, alone, are wandering on.
The reddening bramble has with thorns waylaid

the pathways all; the leaves, now tawny red,
are falling round about (the cypress sways
indifferently), and the south wind spreads
the whistling, early rains through all the ways.

III

And thy nest? thy nest? Powerful is the breath
with which the wind thee ceaselessly doth tear;
thou risest up, and dost remain, like Death.

Thy heart? thy heart? The wild wind whips alway
my window pane, and tall I see thee there,
of sombre mist amid a mist of grey.

Thy dream? See how the earth now fades from sight:
silent as thought the snow falls in its track.
Amid the avalanches still and white.
a giant thou dost stand, unchanging, black.