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On December's Throne (Classic Poetry Cento)

Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;
alone with the enduring Earth, and Night.
With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape;
who wrestles with his dream; as some pale shape.
Their sharp black heads against a quiet sky,
where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies.
As if the vanward clouds of evil days
Call to the HOURS, that in the distance play.

I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, 
the spots and struggles of the timid Dawn
here where seclusion looks out on a scene
not what will be, but what, long since, has been. 

So scathe it, as the flocks with venom-bite
And where the red was, lo! the bloodless white.
THE relic taken, what avails the shrine,
or crackling holly, or the gummy pine?

The trees are full of the dark-stooping night
with octaves of a mystic depth and height.
When life is done? Perchance in other spheres-- 
across the gulf of darkness and salt tears,
I would not tarry if I could be gone,
as one who having wandered all night long.
Among th' immortal pow'rs, and free from care;
even the torment sighs soft in the air.

The shrieking of the tempest-tortured tree,
of her most ancient, chastest mystery;
untouched by morning and untouched by noon,
three months bade wane and wax the wintering moon
with vain Inscriptions, which the Freeze has borne. 
But see the sun-beams bright to labour warn?

Every conception that a man can find
that dwell within the compass of the mind
sink tower and temple; nothing long may stay
of watered light and dull drowned waifs of day.
Graveness of iron; moist black earthen mould;
an orb's dim throes, by iron stars controlled.
A climbing moon upon an empty sky;
the grey lawns cold where gold, where quickgold lies!

Light, darkness, air and water, heat and cold,
who can distinguish darkness from the soul
for him, that calls for Succour from the Throne
till either gorge be stuff'd or prey be gone?
Catch the faint voice, and raise the languid head.
what need of name or music hath the dead? 

I hear huge Pestilence draw vaporous breath,
come, heavy sleep, the image of true death
with silent feet into sleep's poppied lair.
My Soul. I summon to the winding, ancient stair.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men
as silent Suns to meet the Night descend.

Copyright © Jean Marble | Year Posted 2009

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