Explore "Songs of Angus: PRESAGE" by Violet Jacob on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The year declines, and yet there is / A clearness, as of hinted spring; / And chilly, like a virgin's kiss, / The cold light touches everything.
The world seems dazed with purity, / There hangs, this spell-bound afternoon, / Beyond the naked cherry tree / The new-wrought sickle of the moon.
What is this thraldom, pale and still, / That holds so passionless a sway? / Lies death in this ethereal chill, / New life, or prelude of decay?
In the frail rapture of the sky / There bodes, transfigured, far aloof, / The veil that hides eternity, / With life for warp and death for woof.
We see the presage -- not with eyes, / But dimly, with the shrinking soul -- / Scarce guessing, in this fateful guise, / The glory that enwraps the whole,
The light no flesh may apprehend, / Lent but to spirit-eyes, to give / Sign of that splendour of the end / That none may look upon and live.