Whothat hath ever shot a shaft at heavenWhether of wonder, praise or humble prayer,But hath not straight received his answer given,And been made strong with comforting, awareOf strength and beauty for his purpose meant,Whether it were a lark’s song or a scentThat wanders on the quavering paths of the air?The sweetest of all birds, that fed my slumberWith music through the thought-exalting night,Among forgotten fancies without numberTransfigured sorrow to a heart’s delight.And uninvited memories, that stoleWith haunting trouble to their slavèd soulWere turned to wondrous joys and aspects bright.So intimate a part are we of NatureThat even to call us best part doth us wrong,Being her mind, the meaning of her feature,To whom her varied forms wholly belong.So that what were not ours were worthless quite,And thus to me it happened on that nightTo be the love and joy of this bird’s song.As it came leaping on the dark unguardedSilence of midnight to the door of the ear:And finding the warm passages unwardedSped up the spiral stair, and mounted nearTo where in unseen rooms the delicate spriteThat never sleeps sat watching through the nightWeaving the time in fancies strange and drear.Nor was it that the heavenly music flutteredThe quick electric atoms; rarer far,The melody this bird of passion utteredColoured the firmament where all thoughts are:As in the characters a poet’s handHas traced, there lie—for poets understand—Heart-thrills that shoot through blackness like a star.And so, as summer eve will sweetly softenThe wayward thoughts of all who forth may fare,To me there came the spirit who haunts not oftenMy heart for sorrow of the sadness there:But now her face was lit with joy, her eyesWere eager messengers of her surpriseThat she was quit of her profound despair.Clothed was she like a nun, and yet her vestureDid sad despite unto her merry grace,As gaily she came forward with a gestureAs gamesome as the childhood in her face,That I had seen so long downcast and sad,Robbed of the happy birthright which she had,Which earth may steal away but not replace.There is no sorrow like the slow heart-searing,When phantoms bred of earth spring up betweenTwo loving hearts, who grew to their endearing,When all their pushing tendrils yet were green:No time-struck ruin is so sad to seeAs youth’s disease: than thus, O Love, to be,’Twere better for thy honour not to have been.Had I not seen the servitude of folly,The mínute-measuring of days and nights,With superstition preaching melancholyAnd pleasure counterfeiting her own rights;Afraid to turn again and look behind,Lest truth should flame and overwhelm the mind,Fanning her red regret of old delights.The mimicry of woe that is a troubleTo them that practise it, but which to thoseTo whom the joy is owed makes sorrow doubleSeeing the debtor destitute that owes.The tinselling of cruel bars, to blindThe cagèd bird to think the hand is kindWhich liberty denies and food bestows.From which I hurried as a beast from burning,Nor cared in flying where my terror led;Only beyond recall and past returning,Nor now repent if then too far I fled.—So long, dear life, as in my flesh thou reign’stI will sin with thee rather than against,Let me die living rather than live dead.But neither is there human pleasure rarerThan love’s renewal after long disdain,Nor any touching tale for telling fairerThan that wherein lost lovers meet again:Such joy must happy souls beyond the grave,If once again they meet, in Heaven have,Without which all the joys of Heaven were vain.’Twas even thus she came and in my dreaming,My pleasure was not less than Heaven’s may be:The spiritual and unearthly seemingSo far outdid a touched reality:As glances sent in love do more than tellWhat words can never phrase or utter well,And which ’tis shame and blindness not to see.But now the joy was mine, for gentle pityOf her who wearily lived long aloneWith mopes and mummers in a sensuous cityThat held no passion equal to her own,For gentle pity, I say, constrained me well,As pains those separated souls they tellPrepare for Heaven, and mould their hearts of stone.But their sweet ecstasy is all abidingAnd cannot pall with time nor tire nor fade,Nor any more can day of death, dividingTheir earthborn loves, those happy haunts invade.But joy for ever—if that joy compareWith my best joy on earth, may I be there!Though even from that I shrink and am afraid.Now when I woke and thought upon this vision,Wherein she smiled on me and I on her,I could not quite be clear of all misprisionWho of us most was changed: or if it wereThe song I heard not—sleeping as I heard—That shaped our empty dream, while sang the birdRegardless of his fond interpreter.

Whothat hath ever shot a shaft at heavenWhether of wonder, praise or humble prayer,But hath not straight received his answer given,And been made strong with comforting, awareOf strength and beauty for his purpose meant,Whether it were a lark’s song or a scentThat wanders on the quavering paths of the air?The sweetest of all birds, that fed my slumberWith music through the thought-exalting night,Among forgotten fancies without numberTransfigured sorrow to a heart’s delight.And uninvited memories, that stoleWith haunting trouble to their slavèd soulWere turned to wondrous joys and aspects bright.So intimate a part are we of NatureThat even to call us best part doth us wrong,Being her mind, the meaning of her feature,To whom her varied forms wholly belong.So that what were not ours were worthless quite,And thus to me it happened on that nightTo be the love and joy of this bird’s song.As it came leaping on the dark unguardedSilence of midnight to the door of the ear:And finding the warm passages unwardedSped up the spiral stair, and mounted nearTo where in unseen rooms the delicate spriteThat never sleeps sat watching through the nightWeaving the time in fancies strange and drear.Nor was it that the heavenly music flutteredThe quick electric atoms; rarer far,The melody this bird of passion utteredColoured the firmament where all thoughts are:As in the characters a poet’s handHas traced, there lie—for poets understand—Heart-thrills that shoot through blackness like a star.And so, as summer eve will sweetly softenThe wayward thoughts of all who forth may fare,To me there came the spirit who haunts not oftenMy heart for sorrow of the sadness there:But now her face was lit with joy, her eyesWere eager messengers of her surpriseThat she was quit of her profound despair.Clothed was she like a nun, and yet her vestureDid sad despite unto her merry grace,As gaily she came forward with a gestureAs gamesome as the childhood in her face,That I had seen so long downcast and sad,Robbed of the happy birthright which she had,Which earth may steal away but not replace.There is no sorrow like the slow heart-searing,When phantoms bred of earth spring up betweenTwo loving hearts, who grew to their endearing,When all their pushing tendrils yet were green:No time-struck ruin is so sad to seeAs youth’s disease: than thus, O Love, to be,’Twere better for thy honour not to have been.Had I not seen the servitude of folly,The mínute-measuring of days and nights,With superstition preaching melancholyAnd pleasure counterfeiting her own rights;Afraid to turn again and look behind,Lest truth should flame and overwhelm the mind,Fanning her red regret of old delights.The mimicry of woe that is a troubleTo them that practise it, but which to thoseTo whom the joy is owed makes sorrow doubleSeeing the debtor destitute that owes.The tinselling of cruel bars, to blindThe cagèd bird to think the hand is kindWhich liberty denies and food bestows.From which I hurried as a beast from burning,Nor cared in flying where my terror led;Only beyond recall and past returning,Nor now repent if then too far I fled.—So long, dear life, as in my flesh thou reign’stI will sin with thee rather than against,Let me die living rather than live dead.But neither is there human pleasure rarerThan love’s renewal after long disdain,Nor any touching tale for telling fairerThan that wherein lost lovers meet again:Such joy must happy souls beyond the grave,If once again they meet, in Heaven have,Without which all the joys of Heaven were vain.’Twas even thus she came and in my dreaming,My pleasure was not less than Heaven’s may be:The spiritual and unearthly seemingSo far outdid a touched reality:As glances sent in love do more than tellWhat words can never phrase or utter well,And which ’tis shame and blindness not to see.But now the joy was mine, for gentle pityOf her who wearily lived long aloneWith mopes and mummers in a sensuous cityThat held no passion equal to her own,For gentle pity, I say, constrained me well,As pains those separated souls they tellPrepare for Heaven, and mould their hearts of stone.But their sweet ecstasy is all abidingAnd cannot pall with time nor tire nor fade,Nor any more can day of death, dividingTheir earthborn loves, those happy haunts invade.But joy for ever—if that joy compareWith my best joy on earth, may I be there!Though even from that I shrink and am afraid.Now when I woke and thought upon this vision,Wherein she smiled on me and I on her,I could not quite be clear of all misprisionWho of us most was changed: or if it wereThe song I heard not—sleeping as I heard—That shaped our empty dream, while sang the birdRegardless of his fond interpreter.

Whothat hath ever shot a shaft at heavenWhether of wonder, praise or humble prayer,But hath not straight received his answer given,And been made strong with comforting, awareOf strength and beauty for his purpose meant,Whether it were a lark’s song or a scentThat wanders on the quavering paths of the air?

Whothat hath ever shot a shaft at heaven

Whether of wonder, praise or humble prayer,

But hath not straight received his answer given,

And been made strong with comforting, aware

Of strength and beauty for his purpose meant,

Whether it were a lark’s song or a scent

That wanders on the quavering paths of the air?

The sweetest of all birds, that fed my slumberWith music through the thought-exalting night,Among forgotten fancies without numberTransfigured sorrow to a heart’s delight.And uninvited memories, that stoleWith haunting trouble to their slavèd soulWere turned to wondrous joys and aspects bright.

The sweetest of all birds, that fed my slumber

With music through the thought-exalting night,

Among forgotten fancies without number

Transfigured sorrow to a heart’s delight.

And uninvited memories, that stole

With haunting trouble to their slavèd soul

Were turned to wondrous joys and aspects bright.

So intimate a part are we of NatureThat even to call us best part doth us wrong,Being her mind, the meaning of her feature,To whom her varied forms wholly belong.So that what were not ours were worthless quite,And thus to me it happened on that nightTo be the love and joy of this bird’s song.

So intimate a part are we of Nature

That even to call us best part doth us wrong,

Being her mind, the meaning of her feature,

To whom her varied forms wholly belong.

So that what were not ours were worthless quite,

And thus to me it happened on that night

To be the love and joy of this bird’s song.

As it came leaping on the dark unguardedSilence of midnight to the door of the ear:And finding the warm passages unwardedSped up the spiral stair, and mounted nearTo where in unseen rooms the delicate spriteThat never sleeps sat watching through the nightWeaving the time in fancies strange and drear.

As it came leaping on the dark unguarded

Silence of midnight to the door of the ear:

And finding the warm passages unwarded

Sped up the spiral stair, and mounted near

To where in unseen rooms the delicate sprite

That never sleeps sat watching through the night

Weaving the time in fancies strange and drear.

Nor was it that the heavenly music flutteredThe quick electric atoms; rarer far,The melody this bird of passion utteredColoured the firmament where all thoughts are:As in the characters a poet’s handHas traced, there lie—for poets understand—Heart-thrills that shoot through blackness like a star.

Nor was it that the heavenly music fluttered

The quick electric atoms; rarer far,

The melody this bird of passion uttered

Coloured the firmament where all thoughts are:

As in the characters a poet’s hand

Has traced, there lie—for poets understand—

Heart-thrills that shoot through blackness like a star.

And so, as summer eve will sweetly softenThe wayward thoughts of all who forth may fare,To me there came the spirit who haunts not oftenMy heart for sorrow of the sadness there:But now her face was lit with joy, her eyesWere eager messengers of her surpriseThat she was quit of her profound despair.

And so, as summer eve will sweetly soften

The wayward thoughts of all who forth may fare,

To me there came the spirit who haunts not often

My heart for sorrow of the sadness there:

But now her face was lit with joy, her eyes

Were eager messengers of her surprise

That she was quit of her profound despair.

Clothed was she like a nun, and yet her vestureDid sad despite unto her merry grace,As gaily she came forward with a gestureAs gamesome as the childhood in her face,That I had seen so long downcast and sad,Robbed of the happy birthright which she had,Which earth may steal away but not replace.

Clothed was she like a nun, and yet her vesture

Did sad despite unto her merry grace,

As gaily she came forward with a gesture

As gamesome as the childhood in her face,

That I had seen so long downcast and sad,

Robbed of the happy birthright which she had,

Which earth may steal away but not replace.

There is no sorrow like the slow heart-searing,When phantoms bred of earth spring up betweenTwo loving hearts, who grew to their endearing,When all their pushing tendrils yet were green:No time-struck ruin is so sad to seeAs youth’s disease: than thus, O Love, to be,’Twere better for thy honour not to have been.

There is no sorrow like the slow heart-searing,

When phantoms bred of earth spring up between

Two loving hearts, who grew to their endearing,

When all their pushing tendrils yet were green:

No time-struck ruin is so sad to see

As youth’s disease: than thus, O Love, to be,

’Twere better for thy honour not to have been.

Had I not seen the servitude of folly,The mínute-measuring of days and nights,With superstition preaching melancholyAnd pleasure counterfeiting her own rights;Afraid to turn again and look behind,Lest truth should flame and overwhelm the mind,Fanning her red regret of old delights.

Had I not seen the servitude of folly,

The mínute-measuring of days and nights,

With superstition preaching melancholy

And pleasure counterfeiting her own rights;

Afraid to turn again and look behind,

Lest truth should flame and overwhelm the mind,

Fanning her red regret of old delights.

The mimicry of woe that is a troubleTo them that practise it, but which to thoseTo whom the joy is owed makes sorrow doubleSeeing the debtor destitute that owes.The tinselling of cruel bars, to blindThe cagèd bird to think the hand is kindWhich liberty denies and food bestows.

The mimicry of woe that is a trouble

To them that practise it, but which to those

To whom the joy is owed makes sorrow double

Seeing the debtor destitute that owes.

The tinselling of cruel bars, to blind

The cagèd bird to think the hand is kind

Which liberty denies and food bestows.

From which I hurried as a beast from burning,Nor cared in flying where my terror led;Only beyond recall and past returning,Nor now repent if then too far I fled.—So long, dear life, as in my flesh thou reign’stI will sin with thee rather than against,Let me die living rather than live dead.

From which I hurried as a beast from burning,

Nor cared in flying where my terror led;

Only beyond recall and past returning,

Nor now repent if then too far I fled.—

So long, dear life, as in my flesh thou reign’st

I will sin with thee rather than against,

Let me die living rather than live dead.

But neither is there human pleasure rarerThan love’s renewal after long disdain,Nor any touching tale for telling fairerThan that wherein lost lovers meet again:Such joy must happy souls beyond the grave,If once again they meet, in Heaven have,Without which all the joys of Heaven were vain.

But neither is there human pleasure rarer

Than love’s renewal after long disdain,

Nor any touching tale for telling fairer

Than that wherein lost lovers meet again:

Such joy must happy souls beyond the grave,

If once again they meet, in Heaven have,

Without which all the joys of Heaven were vain.

’Twas even thus she came and in my dreaming,My pleasure was not less than Heaven’s may be:The spiritual and unearthly seemingSo far outdid a touched reality:As glances sent in love do more than tellWhat words can never phrase or utter well,And which ’tis shame and blindness not to see.

’Twas even thus she came and in my dreaming,

My pleasure was not less than Heaven’s may be:

The spiritual and unearthly seeming

So far outdid a touched reality:

As glances sent in love do more than tell

What words can never phrase or utter well,

And which ’tis shame and blindness not to see.

But now the joy was mine, for gentle pityOf her who wearily lived long aloneWith mopes and mummers in a sensuous cityThat held no passion equal to her own,For gentle pity, I say, constrained me well,As pains those separated souls they tellPrepare for Heaven, and mould their hearts of stone.

But now the joy was mine, for gentle pity

Of her who wearily lived long alone

With mopes and mummers in a sensuous city

That held no passion equal to her own,

For gentle pity, I say, constrained me well,

As pains those separated souls they tell

Prepare for Heaven, and mould their hearts of stone.

But their sweet ecstasy is all abidingAnd cannot pall with time nor tire nor fade,Nor any more can day of death, dividingTheir earthborn loves, those happy haunts invade.But joy for ever—if that joy compareWith my best joy on earth, may I be there!Though even from that I shrink and am afraid.

But their sweet ecstasy is all abiding

And cannot pall with time nor tire nor fade,

Nor any more can day of death, dividing

Their earthborn loves, those happy haunts invade.

But joy for ever—if that joy compare

With my best joy on earth, may I be there!

Though even from that I shrink and am afraid.

Now when I woke and thought upon this vision,Wherein she smiled on me and I on her,I could not quite be clear of all misprisionWho of us most was changed: or if it wereThe song I heard not—sleeping as I heard—That shaped our empty dream, while sang the birdRegardless of his fond interpreter.

Now when I woke and thought upon this vision,

Wherein she smiled on me and I on her,

I could not quite be clear of all misprision

Who of us most was changed: or if it were

The song I heard not—sleeping as I heard—

That shaped our empty dream, while sang the bird

Regardless of his fond interpreter.


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