To Elizabeth Ward Perkins
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ear Bessie, would my tired rhymeHad force to rise from apathy,And shaking off its lethargyRing word-tones like a Christmas chime. But in my soul's high belfry, chillThe bitter wind of doubt has blown,The summer swallows all have flown,The bells are frost-bound, mute and still. Upon the crumbling boards the snowHas drifted deep, the clappers hangPrismed with icicles, their clangUnheard since ages long ago. The rope I pull is stiff and cold,My straining ears detect no soundExcept a sigh, as round and roundThe wind rocks through the timbers old. Below, I know the church is brightWith haloed tapers, warm with prayer;But here I only feel the airOf icy centuries of night. Beneath my feet the snow is litAnd gemmed with colours, red, and blue,Topaz, and green, where light falls throughThe saints that in the windows sit. Here darkness seems a spectred thing,Voiceless and haunting, while the starsMock with a light of long dead yearsThe ache of present suffering. Silent and winter-killed I stand,No carol hymns my debt to you;But take this frozen thought in lieu,And thaw its music in your hand.
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