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Walter de la Mare - The Children Of Stare
Work rating: Low

Winter is fallen early 
   On the house of Stare; 
Birds in reverberating flocks 
   Haunt its ancestral box; 
   Bright are the plenteous berries 
   In clusters in the air. 


   Still is the fountain’s music, 
   The dark pool icy still, 
Whereupon a small and sanguine sun 
   Floats in a mirror on, 
   Into a West of crimson, 
   From a South of daffodil. 


   ’Tis strange to see young children 
   In such a wintry house; 
Like rabbits’ on the frozen snow 
   Their tell-tale footprints go; 
   Their laughter rings like timbrels 
   ’Neath evening ominous: 


   Their small and heightened faces 
   Like wine-red winter buds; 
Their frolic bodies gentle as 
   Flakes in the air that pass, 
   Frail as the twirling petal 
   From the briar of the woods. 


   Above them silence lours, 
   Still as an arctic sea; 
Light fails; night falls; the wintry moon 
   Glitters; the crocus soon 
   Will open grey and distracted 
   On earth’s austerity: 


   Thick mystery, wild peril, 
   Law like an iron rod:— 
Yet sport they on in Spring’s attire, 
   Each with his tiny fire 
   Blown to a core of ardour 
   By the awful breath of God.
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