Classic Poem

A clumsy clot of shadow in the fold
Of the white blind,—a moth asleep or dead,
And hooked therein with still, tenacious hold,
And dusky vans outspread.

Laid on my hand a wonder of dull dyes,
A sombre miracle of mingled grain,
Grey etched on grey, faint as faint memories,
Dim stain invading stain.

Each wing-edge scalloped clear as any shell's,
With rippled repetitions ebbing in
Rhyme within rhyme, as when cathedral bells
Remit their joyous din.

Complete is it of broken laceries,
A pencilled maze of blending greys,
Mosaic of symmetric traceries,
Assorted in sweet ways.

Black velvet grainings upon pearly ash,
An elf-wrought broidery of hues they stole
From the black moss-blot, and the lichen-splash,
From birch or beechen bole.

Strange-headed thing, in ruminative rest
Stirring its flexile antlers dreamily,
With great ghoul-eyes and sable-feathered breast,
In sleep's security.

‘There rest thee, and sleep off thy drowsy fit,
Till night shall triumph in the dusky glades,
And mass her conquering glooms, then rise and flit
A shadow through the shades!’