MID-WINTER TREES. 



BY R. B. NATTRASS. 



My fancy weaves, 

 From old mid-winter orchard trees, 

 And snow, and ice, and last year's leaves 

 Such forms as these. 



THE KNIGHT. 



Sir Launcelot rides at break of day, 



Up the hill in his silvery mail, 



Oh his lance is bright ! 



And his plume is white ! 



And white is the shrine where virgins pray, 



"God make him victor in every fray 



That he may wage for the Holy Grail." 



How his helmet gleams 



In the morn's red beams, 



As his song comes blithely down the vale. 



THE PEASANT. 



Twisted and bent, 



Like some peasant, 



Wearily trudging up the hill, 



With haggard feet 



Through wind and sleet, 



Bearing a grain-sack to the mill. 



Bent, like some martyr might have trod. 



The cruel pathway to his God ! 



THE PRIEST. 



A priest doth in his hands uphold 

 The day's chalice of burnished gold, 

 So full of wine there often drips 

 Red, blood-red drops on Night's cold lips, 

 His ermine robes of spotless snow, 

 Are with the sun-set lights aglow, 

 And from my window here afar, 

 Seem fastened with the Evening; star. 



i & 



Such are the forms my fancy sees 

 In old mid-winter orchard trees. 



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