by Robert Laurence Binyon

Laurence Binyon

Pale was the early day,
Fog--white the winter air,
When up a hill--side bare,
Roughened with rimy grass,
I took my thoughtless way.
As my feet strayed uphill
I felt the blank cloud float
Past, and bedew my coat.
At unawares I found
A gate, and there stood still.
And on a sudden behold,
Above, the virgin blue,
Blue, bathing my heart through!
A shock of blueness bright
Pierced with an eye of gold.
And there uprising tall
From mist to warm sapphire,
Straight up like windless fire,
A poplar stood alone,
White, dream--fresh, virginal.
Rime robed her, pure as snow.
O white was never white
As this which thrilled my sight.
I stood still in the mist,
Dazzled, entranced, aglow.
For in a dazzling drift
The rime rained down, it gleamed,
It shivered soft, it streamed,
Radiant as tears of joy
When the heart gives all its gift.
Alone in the still, still air
To the divine lone height
Of blue this poplar white
Like virgin ecstasy
Stript all her beauty bare.

Last updated January 14, 2019