Osbert Sitwell

Tears

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Silence o'erwhelms the melody of Night,
Then slowly drips on to the woods that sigh
For their past vivid vernal ecstasy.
The branches and the leaves let in the light
In patterns, woven 'gainst the paler sky
- Create mysterious Gothic tracery,
Between those high dark pillars,- that affright
Poor weary mortals who are wand'ring by.
Silence drips on the woods like sad faint rain,
Making each frail tired sigh, a sob of pain
Each drop that falls, a hollow painted tear
Such as are shed by Pierrots, when they fear
Black clouds may crush their silver lord to death.
The world is waxen; and the wind's least breath
Would make a hurricane of sound. The earth
Smells of the hoarded sunlight that gave birth
To the gold-glowing radiance of that leaf,
Which falls to bury from our sight its grief.

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Osbert Sitwell