Ode to December
1917
By Edwin John Dove Pratt
Was ever night so wild as this — this bleak December night!
Veiled in the sombre shroud that sepulchred the day;
Why thus bereft of heaven's beams, of moon and starry light,
Are all its ancient charms in sorrow laid away?
The year dies out with drifted leaves, with winds and floods of rain,
Companions of the tempest with its brood of fears;
And voices far above us echo back the world's great pain,
In tongueless language inarticulate through tears.
Why passed with such inevitable speed
The eager splendor of the awakening spring?
So little did it seem to know or heed
Our outward cries, our hidden murmuring;
It shone upon us shyly for some reason,
Then flew into the summer's briefer season,
And found, amidst its roses fully blown,
A transient radiance fleeter than its own.
How sweet the flowers grew in the woods last May!
The trillium, splashed by sunlight, jauntily
Awoke to match the whiteness of its ray
With white of blood-root and anemone.
Within the stray leaves on the humid ground,
Beside the fallen trunks of trees, were found
Numerous hepaticas whose lilac hue
Seemed woven of heaven's purple and its blue,
And, near at hand, a running streamlet told
Of treasure hidden in the marigold.
A little while they stayed; how short the space!
We watched them as the hours went by,
We looked again, and saw them die —
Thus did they pass away; but in their place,
In meadow and in vale sprang up
The daisy and the buttercup;
Then on the creeping slopes of sunny hills,
By winding dales and tortuous rills,
Blue vervain rose to greet the sun,
Ere half the summer's race was run;
And in the fields and on the plains.
By forest paths, by country lanes,
By wayside and in garden plot,
The bluebell and forget-me-not;
And fair the bottle-gentian grew
Beside the wintergreen and rue.
And everywhere around us from the throats
Of joyous birds pealed forth ecstatic praise —
Glad hymns in which were heard no notes
Of dim unrest and troubled lays.
The heart had never taught them sorrows,
Regretful yesterdays nor morrows;
Each morning brought them its full boon of light,
And in return they gave their gift of song —
Free utterance that had no tale of wrong
Within the horizon of their life to right;
And when the evening drew to twilight close,
Fell the light mantle of their calm repose.
Fled are they all;
The flowers and the birds,
In vain we call,
With cries too dumb for words.
The fragrance and the music gone,
The fire of sunset, flush of dawn,
The waterlily in the lake,
The robin's love-song in the brake;
All these are fled and gone,
And with us now the night,
The wild December night.
Far, far away upon the seas
The billows tell their agonies;
The ocean in its frenzied roar
Lashes the ramparts of the shore;
The tempest with its shattering thunder
Drives the iron bulwarks under;
The furies, in their path advancing,
Are seen around the breakers dancing;
The sea-mews, blinded by the light
Of mast-head signals, flaring bright,
Are rent by blow of spar and sail
Within the clutches of the gale,
And sailors, drenched by salt and foam,
Yearn for the fireside of their home.
And thus upon the land
Earth's ravage is laid bare;
Slapped by the storm's fierce hand,
The wildcat and the bear
Lie huddled in the sand
That marks their common lair;
The trees in angry lurch
That grew beside each other —
The hemlock and the birch —
Now strive with one another,
In strangely human mood,
Born of unnatural feud.
Around the hoary mountain sides
The storm hurls its impetuous shock,
Is answered by the torrent's tides,
The iron echoes of the rock.
Gone are the woodland notes of spring,
The airs of summer's short-lived breath,
The autumn, too, has taken wing,
The year has rushed into its death.
Gone, like the memory of a dream,
A rainbow hovering o'er a stream;
And we, of nature's joys bereft,
Are with her deepening shadows left,
With grey upon the sea,
And driftwood on the reef,
With winter in the tree,
And death within the leaf.
Far, far away, across the distant deep,
Heaven's lightnings flash from out a darker scroll;
Midnight and darkness in wild chaos keep
A dawnless vigil, as slow thunders roll
Over a world upon whose face the storm
Breaks, and within the terrors of eclipse,
Fall the swift strokes of Death, clothed in the form
Of some dread angel of Apocalypse.
There rides a tempest heedless of the check
Of law, and with no mandate but its will,
Whose function lies alone in power to wreck,
That never hears the fiat, "Peace, be still!"
There, through deep, winding valleys that had known
The quiet haunts of peasants; through the green,
Sweet-tufted verdure that the spring had sown;
Through glens where only roe and fawn were seen
In peace; through plains where once the sunset's brush
Placed its soft crimson on the silent streams;
There, through that land that often loved the hush
Of evening and the tenderness of dreams,
Rolls now the bugle with its alien blast,
The cry of battle on the midnight air,
The fiery summons to earth's legions massed
Mid bayonets gleaming in the rocket's glare;
And streams that to the North Sea once had brought
The dawn's white silver and the sunset's gold,
Now pour such tides as Nature never wrought.
The ruddier treasures of a wealth untold.
O Nature! Thou that lovest life
In herb and brute and feathered kind,
Who leadest from the night's long strife
The morn with rays of promise lined;
Who bringest forth the vital glow
To bathe the trees in glorious light,
And bid the woodland flowers grow,
Clothed spotless in their raiment bright;
Who givest food to hart and hare
Upon the snowy mountain's crest,
And to the ravens everywhere,
The storm-proof covert of their nest; —
Hast thou within thy bounteous plan,
So rich and measureless and mild,
No boon wherewith to succour man,
Thy youngest, feeblest, blindest child?
Prostrate upon a formless field,
Bedewed with unavailing tears,
While the slow hours, faltering, yield
This nameless triad of the years;
What balm shall touch his stricken eyes?
What hand shall drive away his dead?
What tones shall quieten his cries?
What voice shall resurrect his dead?
O Winds; that sweep the surges from the bosom of the sea,
Strong with a strength unmeasured, as the chainless lightnings — free;
Ye nether rivals of the thunders, as their voice your own,
Yet theirs excelling in your major harmonies of tone;
Ye mighty arbiters of light and shade, of hope and gloom,
Who fashion for the morn its cradle, for the eve its tomb,
Who garrison the towers of God with clouds in dark array,
Marshalling their watch and slumber till their hidden fires play;
All day ye played upon the forest pines a mournful strain,
As if the slowly ebbing year were laboring in its pain;
Upon the land ye tossed the agéd leaves in aimless quest,
And on the deep ye filled the sailor's heart with wild unrest.
O Winds! that stir the ashes of our altars while our cries
From hearthstone and from chancel in our agony arise,
That drive us in our frantic hours to prayer upon our knees,
While those we love drift shelterless upon the homeless seas;
O lift us once again to God! this time on kindlier wings —
So weary are we of the strife and fear the tempest brings;
Give us the vision of His gardens under skies of blue,
We have lived so long in shadow of the cypress and the yew;
Sing through the swell that crowns the ocean when its rage has passed,
Resign the terrors of the gale, the furies of the blast;
Then through the vibrant music of the lyre of sea and land
Which our storm-sated world first heard when from the Creator's hand
It rose at the Great Dawn, breathe soon that sweet, untroubled peace,
That vista of life's cravings reared on hopes that never cease;
Blow out upon the raven plumes of this December night,
The world's unresting miseries, her shadow and her blight;
The story of her passions, and her dark, unfathomed sin,
The outward blow that slaughters, and the guilt that slays within;
And deep from out the storm's last throes, peal forth in life re-born,
The blazon of the future with the heralds of the morn;
The anthem of a world re-strung to human love and grace,
The full-toned orchestration of the heart-throbs of the race.
Poem Analysis:
"Ode to December" by Edwin John Dove Pratt is a powerful and evocative poem that reflects on the harsh and tumultuous aspects of the month of December. The poem paints a vivid picture of the winter season's challenges, both in nature and in human life, while also alluding to themes of hope, change, and renewal. In this analysis, we will delve into the poem's structure, themes, and literary devices, exploring how Pratt uses vivid imagery and powerful language to convey the complexities of December.
- December's Harshness: The poem opens with a striking portrayal of a wild and bleak December night. Pratt describes the night as "veiled in the sombre shroud" and questions why the usual celestial beauties of the night sky, such as the moon and stars, are absent. This sets the tone for the poem's exploration of December's unforgiving and desolate nature.
- Nature's Desolation: Pratt goes on to describe how December marks the end of the year with its "drifted leaves" and relentless rain, symbolizing the decay and deterioration that come with the season. The harsh weather and the destruction it brings reflect the broader themes of loss and inevitable change.
- Human Responses: The poem also touches on the human response to December's challenges. Pratt speaks of voices echoing "the world's great pain" in a language that is "tongueless" and "inarticulate through tears." This suggests that December is a time of introspection and reflection, a period when people grapple with their own sorrows and the world's troubles.
- The Passing of Seasons: Pratt contemplates the rapid passing of the seasons, particularly lamenting the fleeting beauty of spring. He notes how spring's radiance is temporary, quickly giving way to summer's "fleeter" radiance. This observation underscores the transient nature of all things in life, a theme that resonates throughout the poem.
- The Memory of Spring: The poet's memory of the vibrant and colorful spring contrasts sharply with the bleakness of December, reinforcing the idea that beauty and vitality are transient. This reflection on the passage of time and the changing of seasons is a central theme of the poem.
- Nature's Fury: Pratt portrays the fury of December's storms with vivid imagery, describing the tempestuous sea and the destructive power of the elements. This imagery evokes a sense of chaos and turmoil, emphasizing the hardships associated with the season.
- Hope Amidst Desolation: In the latter part of the poem, the poet calls upon the winds to lift humanity closer to God, seeking solace and peace amidst the turmoil. This reflects a yearning for spiritual and emotional renewal, even in the face of nature's harshness.
"Ode to December" by Edwin John Dove Pratt is a beautifully crafted poem that delves into the complexities of the winter season and its impact on both the natural world and human emotions. Through vivid imagery and lyrical language, Pratt explores themes of transience, introspection, and the quest for hope and renewal in the face of December's challenges. The poem invites readers to contemplate the ever-changing cycles of life and the resilience of the human spirit in the midst of adversity.