The Children Of Stare

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 ope 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.