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. IN ROSE-TIME _Oh, this is the joy of the rose: That it blows, And goes._ Winter lasts a five-month, Spring-time stays but one; Yellow blow the rye-fields When the rose is done. Pines are clad at Yuletide When the birch is bare, And the holly’s greenest In the frosty air. Sorrow keeps a stone house Builded grim and gray; Pleasure hath a straw thatch Hung with lanterns gay. On her petty savings Niggard Prudence thrives, Passion, ere the moonset, Bleeds a thousand lives. Virtue hath a warm hearth-- Folly’s dead and drowned; Friendship hath her own when Love is underground. Ah! for me the madness Of the spendthrift flower, Burning myriad sunsets In a single hour. _For this is the joy of the rose: That it blows, And goes._ POPPIES ON LUDLOW CASTLE Through halls of vanished pleasure, And hold of vanished power, And crypt of faith forgotten, I came to Ludlow tower. A-top of arch and stairway, Of crypt, and donjon cell, Of council hall, and chamber, Of wall, and ditch, and well, High over grated turrets Where clinging ivies run, A thousand scarlet poppies Enticed the rising sun, Upon the topmost turret, With death and damp below,-- Three hundred years of spoilage,-- The crimson poppies grow. This hall it was that bred him, These hills that knew him brave, The gentlest English singer That fills an English grave. How have they heart to blossom So cruel gay and red, When beauty so hath perished And valour so hath sped? When knights so fair are rotten, And captains true asleep, And singing lips are dust-stopped Six English earth-feet deep? When ages old remind me How much hath gone for naught, What wretched ghost remaineth Of all that flesh hath wrought;