The Roaring Frost

Alice Meynell - 1847-1922
A flock of winds came winging from the North,
Strong birds with fighting pinions driving forth
      With a resounding call:—

Where will they close their wings and cease their cries—
Between what warming seas and conquering skies—
      And fold, and fall?

More by Alice Meynell

Renouncement

I must not think of thee; and, tired yet strong,
I shun the thought that lurks in all delight—
   The thought of thee—and in the blue heaven's height,
And in the sweetest passage of a song.
Oh, just beyond the fairest thoughts that throng
   This breast, the thought of thee waits hidden yet bright;
But it must never, never come in sight;
I must stop short of thee the whole day long.
But when sleep comes to close each difficult day,
   When night gives pause to the long watch I keep,
And all my bonds I needs must loose apart,
Must doff my will as raiment laid away,—
   With the first dream that comes with the first sleep
I run, I run, I am gathered to thy heart.