A Reverie Geraint Goodwin
The fine blown white of the first hoar frost,
The pheasants burr through the wind blown trees,
The naked earth, the stir in steaming leaves,
The cracking tread and spaceless peace—an old world lost
Or an old world dead?
And there I wandered, there I hung my head
Beyond the ragged edge of copse
Where larch and elm hung limp and sere,
Where berries of the hawthorn bled
In ripeness in the dying year.
And there I came where long ago I stood,
I breathed again peat-laden air,
And smelt the dripping pine trees in the wood,
And watched the shadows in the dead sun's glare.
There had I wandered with the waking Dawn
Across the slow sky's ever-winding stair,
Across the slow sky's breathless arch had gone,
And I am loaded with a wordly load of care.
Then on beyond
The old day's falling flood of light
Came, half-awake, and with what pensive air,
The starry stillness of a frosty night.
I knew I had been always standing there.