The Forest Inn
A frost-bit trail surrendered hills beyond,
Their eerie presence trying to enfold
Dour mists which haunt the hallowed ground
As bridal light begins to fall,
The night's confetti, daubs of snow
Unknown, where coppiced, crocused pall
Spurs Death's quick youth which age has paid so slow
That Time's slow Will and Fancy's blosom
Are soon to quell life's love misgotten.
Sprang up a time when spangled lilting boughs
Through greener tilling brooks could browse,
Which by the arboured inn its revels played
Whilst all around in beeches green
Was laid a riotous plot:
A wheel by revellers unseen
Would wear a deep, Fate-allocated slot
While fits of sunlight clamber up the wall,
Collapse in fancy, film or flight
And dewy slumbers settle on us all
And steal that hour we kept so hard to fight:
When snow welds fast the candle-coddled pane,
Benights the tavern, by History despised,
Where one last nodding head is laid,
Lapsed on an oaken table, and so demise.
10/11/90.