POETRY.
PASSION-TIDE WEATHER. UPONNE a harshe and leaflesse Tree The flowrie woods amonge I saw a Kinge y-crowned with thorne That there in sorrowe honge. I felte a sharpe and biters winde That in the braunehes blewe ; Full sore itte smote hys tenders limbes, And did hys paynes renewe.
I sayd : "What menes this biters winde A voyee to me replyed "Itte is the brethe of wicked menne That mocked hym when he deyed."
And whiles I watched, from oute the deepe A murkie cloude drewe nighe; Itte hidde the fayre and yellowe Bonne, Itte coverede elle the skie.
Then cued the Kinge in anguish sore, For now the Lyghte was gone ; And he, that reyned so royalie, Was left to deye alone.
"Oh whence," I sayd, "this darkling cloudeP " A voyce to me replyed "Itte is the blacke of manne hys sinne, For dole of wich he deyed."
But sudene from the murkie cloude A showere of rayne ran downe; Itte set a jeweled coronall About the thorn& crowne ; Itte fele upon bye parched lips, Itte esed bys biters payne, And now upon that woefulle Tree The sonne shon oute againe.
"How blest," I sayd, "this heling mynel" A voyce to me replyed "Itte is thy teres of penitence That helped hym when be deyed."
EVELYN UNDERHILL.
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