Light aspens stand above the silken grass,
And send upon the twilight their wan look,
More wan for the long thought of what doth pass.
There in the stream, half river and half brook,
They gaze, entwining all their sister arms,
And pale to read the dream within his glass.
Together in the bank their feet are set,
While all the air low mourneth, and chill harms
Hover where the bright heads are closely met.
For they have seen that sprite of even go
By their light stems, that makes disconsolate
What is of earth, whether of mire or snow,
For that he showeth him his poor estate;
Innocent making sorrow with sweet mirth,
As on warped limbs the winds of heaven blow.
The slender trees stand fast in the cold clay,
That is their death and was their silent birth,
And the brave look abroad is cast away.
And the sprite passeth, coming to that place
Where the folk sit, and entereth thereto
To talk of byres, and grain that swells apace:
But in the ancient murmur something new
Strikes on their hearts, and they turn wondering
And with a fixed regard, to read his face.
He standeth in the shadow by the door,
And while his vesture is a radiant thing,
All that is rich of theirs is grievous poor.
Yea, poor and thin as leaves of the last year,
Made for woe’s children by her starvéd hand,
Faint mottled with all livid hues and drear,
Like to dried blood and the pale thirsting sand:
And in the midst of these each countenance
Looketh upon the sprite, anon with fear,
Anon with hunger and great eagerness,
Yet with no understanding: woeful glance!
Thus the poor stones unwillingly might bless
With trembling love that is both faint and far
The light that they with their swart bodies mar,
The sun that sheweth their uncomeliness.