by Patience Worth
Like to a thief who wrappeth him
Within the night-tide's robe,
So standeth the specter o' the Earth;
Yea, he doth robe him o' the Earth's fair store.
Yea, he decketh in
The star-hung purple o' the eve,
And reacheth from out the night unto the morn,
And wringeth from her waking all her gold;
And at his touching, lo, the stars are dust,
And mom's gold but heat's glow, and ne'er
The golden blush of His own metal store.
Yea, he strideth then upon
The flower-hung couches of the field,
And traileth him thereon his robe,
And lo, the flowers do die of thirst,
And parch of scorching of his breath.
Yea, and 'mid the musics of the earth
He strideth him, and full-songed throats are mute.
Yea, music dieth of his luring glance.
And e'en the love of earth he seeketh out,
And turneth it unto a folly play.
Yea, beneath his glance, the fairy frost
Upon the love-sprite's wing,
Doth flutter as a dust, and drop, and leave
But bruised and broken bearers for His store.
Yea, and 'mid man's day he ever strideth him,
And layeth low man's reasoning.
His robes are hung of all the earth's most loved.
From off the flowers their fresh;
From off the day the fairness of her hours.
For dark, and hid beneath his cloak,
He steppeth ever and doth hiss
His name to the Doubt.
Last updated January 14, 2019