Explore "Sleep, Minstrel, Sleep" by Willa Cather on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Sleep, minstrel, sleep; the winter wind's awake, / And yellow April's buried deep and cold. / The wood is black, and songful things forsake / The haunted forest when the year is old. / Above the drifted snow the aspens quake, / The scourging clouds a shrunken moon enfold, / Denying all that nights of summer spake / And swearing false the summer's globe of gold.
Sleep, minstrel, sleep; in such a bitter night / Thine azure song would seek the stars in vain; / Thy rose and roundelay the winter's spite / Would scarcely spare -- O never wake again! / These leaden skies do not thy masques invite, / Thy sunny breath would warm not their disdain; / How should'st thou sing to boughs with winter dight, / Or gather marigolds in winter rain?
Sleep, minstrel, sleep; we do not grow more kind; / Your cloak was thin, your wound was wet and deep; / More bitter breath there was than winter wind, / And hotter tears than now thy lovers weep. / Upon the world-old breast of comfort find / How gentle Darkness thee will gently keep. / Thou wert the summer's, and thy joy declined / When winter winds awoke. Sleep, minstrel, sleep.