Page:Poems Cook.djvu/357

Lew it dangles, high it soars,
 Where all can pluck and none can snatch;
Hanging round white cottage doors,
 And trellissing the latch.
Up the chimney turret sprawling,
O'er the farthest gable crawling,
Soft and lovingly it prieth,
 Into every mossy patch;
Where the honeysuckle lieth,
 With the houseleek, on the thatch.
Shadowing the roadside dwelling,
 Gracefully it twirls and twists,
O'er the purple bunches swelling;
 Young Pomona's amethysts.
Oh! a sweet and sunny thing
 Is the Vine Curl, only coming
When roses breathe and wild birds sing,
And Nature tunes her own rich string
 Within the heart, and sets it humming.

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And there's another glossy Curl that wanders where it will;
But rarely on the cottage porch, or round the cottage sill;
A darker tinge is on each leaf, it seeketh darker homes,
And bravely stareth at the clouds when frowning Winter comes.
The tottering heap within its grasp is closely held together;
The proud tree stands within its thrall, like wild horse in a tether;
It climbeth where the ruffled owl chimes with the midnight gust,
And hears them sing, in doleful wail, the song of "dust to dust."

Where the Gothic pane has been,
 There it stretches—there it tangles
With its drapery, between
 Dropping arch and broken angles.

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