Mïre

Harken
The clouds musteréd in dark
So painfully easing
Hush! Hearest ye the yew doting
Its years of yore in a mïre
Each like a corpse within its grave
Wrought for us a yearn of lief

'Tis not a lore of bale nor loathe
Harmony and æsthesia are its blisses
Ne'er ere hath it exist'd so sonorously
Jostl'd away the pale drape that us had been o'erhung

Tempt'd thy shutters to open
And thus quenched the hearth
Thou giv'st to misery all thou hast: the cold
With weal embrac'd the sprounting landscape

Like a star of heaven in the broad daylight
This joy subdueth until it again waneth
Save the drooping winter of stalwart