The Rothers
The silent hate of eyes and brow
Estranged her not; and oh, 'tis true!
To gain his favour she slighted you.
And yet you stayed! And yet you stayed—
Hoping to win your dear one back—
Thinking through pain, not sin, she strayed
From the old, good, well-known heavenly track.
Alas, your lamb had gone too far—
Farther from you than the farthest star.
*****
At last the three months ended; then
I heard Miss May was very ill;
It was the first of autumn, when
Our roads are bad, so I chose the hill
And the brow of the moor, as I rode away
To Rother, where my good friend lay.
Now for my sunset ? Is't not strange
That heaven, which sees a million woes
Unmoved, should pale, and faint, and change
At one more murder that it knows?
And yet I think I could declare
A horror in that sunset's glare.
As I was riding over the moor
My back was turned to the blazing white
O' the western sun, but all around
The country caught the brilliant light;
The tufts of trees were yellow, not green;
Grey shadows hung like nets between.
Such yellow hues on bush and tree!
Such sharp-cut shade and light I saw!
The white gates white as a star may be:
But every scarlet hip and haw,
Cluster of poppies, roof of red,
Had lost its colour, wan and dead!
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