Poems (Greenwell)/A Comparison
Jump to navigation
Jump to search
A COMPARISON.
There is no Winter in the soul of Man;
Its clime is Tropical, a giant tree
In stately Southern forests blowing free
And broad, it stands where equal Summer sways
All seasons, and as one swift joy decays,
Another pushes forth a fan-like frond
Or succulent leaf dark-shining far beyond
Before it falls; and wing-like thoughts have sown
Their seeds all round about its roots, and thrown
A veil of living blooms from bough to bough,
Leaf, flower, and tendril twining, so that now
Most vain it were to track each home, or guess
Whence springs this weight and wealth of loveliness;
While e'en its cloven bark, a sheath and shroud
Of splendour, blossoms o'er,—so fancies crowd
Within the soul, so mounting swift and high
Up to that tree's tall summit, suddenly
Spring in one night efflorescent, bright hopes,
That drop again to earth like flowery ropes
Lot down from Heaven by angels' hands; yet there
Stand forth, 'mid all that fulness, gaunt and bare
Like matted cordage, withered coils that fruit,
Or flower, or leaf, bear never, for the root
From whence they drew earth's kindly juice is gone;
And these are hopes that die, yet still cling on!
Its clime is Tropical, a giant tree
In stately Southern forests blowing free
And broad, it stands where equal Summer sways
All seasons, and as one swift joy decays,
Another pushes forth a fan-like frond
Or succulent leaf dark-shining far beyond
Before it falls; and wing-like thoughts have sown
Their seeds all round about its roots, and thrown
A veil of living blooms from bough to bough,
Leaf, flower, and tendril twining, so that now
Most vain it were to track each home, or guess
Whence springs this weight and wealth of loveliness;
While e'en its cloven bark, a sheath and shroud
Of splendour, blossoms o'er,—so fancies crowd
Within the soul, so mounting swift and high
Up to that tree's tall summit, suddenly
Spring in one night efflorescent, bright hopes,
That drop again to earth like flowery ropes
Lot down from Heaven by angels' hands; yet there
Stand forth, 'mid all that fulness, gaunt and bare
Like matted cordage, withered coils that fruit,
Or flower, or leaf, bear never, for the root
From whence they drew earth's kindly juice is gone;
And these are hopes that die, yet still cling on!