11The sea keeps not the Sabbath day,His waves come rolling evermore;His noisy toil grindeth the shore,And all the cliff is drencht with spray.Here as we sit, my love and I,Under the pine upon the hill,The sadness of the clouded sky,The bitter wind, the gloomy roar,The seamew’s melancholy cryWith loving fancy suit but ill.We talk of moons and cooling suns,Of geologic time and tide,The eternal sluggards that abideWhile our fair love so swiftly runs,Of nature that doth half consentThat man should guess her dreary schemeLest he should live too well contentIn his fair house of mirth and dream:Whose labour irks his ageing heart,His heart that wearies of desire,Being so fugitive a partOf what so slowly must expire.She in her agelong toil and carePersistent, wearies not nor stays,Mocking alike hope and despair.—Ah, but she too can mock our praise,Enchanted on her brighter days,Days, that the thought of grief refuse,Days that are one with human art,Worthy of the Virgilian muse,Fit for the gaiety of Mozart.
11The sea keeps not the Sabbath day,His waves come rolling evermore;His noisy toil grindeth the shore,And all the cliff is drencht with spray.Here as we sit, my love and I,Under the pine upon the hill,The sadness of the clouded sky,The bitter wind, the gloomy roar,The seamew’s melancholy cryWith loving fancy suit but ill.We talk of moons and cooling suns,Of geologic time and tide,The eternal sluggards that abideWhile our fair love so swiftly runs,Of nature that doth half consentThat man should guess her dreary schemeLest he should live too well contentIn his fair house of mirth and dream:Whose labour irks his ageing heart,His heart that wearies of desire,Being so fugitive a partOf what so slowly must expire.She in her agelong toil and carePersistent, wearies not nor stays,Mocking alike hope and despair.—Ah, but she too can mock our praise,Enchanted on her brighter days,Days, that the thought of grief refuse,Days that are one with human art,Worthy of the Virgilian muse,Fit for the gaiety of Mozart.
The sea keeps not the Sabbath day,His waves come rolling evermore;His noisy toil grindeth the shore,And all the cliff is drencht with spray.Here as we sit, my love and I,Under the pine upon the hill,The sadness of the clouded sky,The bitter wind, the gloomy roar,The seamew’s melancholy cryWith loving fancy suit but ill.We talk of moons and cooling suns,Of geologic time and tide,The eternal sluggards that abideWhile our fair love so swiftly runs,Of nature that doth half consentThat man should guess her dreary schemeLest he should live too well contentIn his fair house of mirth and dream:Whose labour irks his ageing heart,His heart that wearies of desire,Being so fugitive a partOf what so slowly must expire.She in her agelong toil and carePersistent, wearies not nor stays,Mocking alike hope and despair.—Ah, but she too can mock our praise,Enchanted on her brighter days,Days, that the thought of grief refuse,Days that are one with human art,Worthy of the Virgilian muse,Fit for the gaiety of Mozart.
The sea keeps not the Sabbath day,His waves come rolling evermore;His noisy toil grindeth the shore,And all the cliff is drencht with spray.Here as we sit, my love and I,Under the pine upon the hill,The sadness of the clouded sky,The bitter wind, the gloomy roar,The seamew’s melancholy cryWith loving fancy suit but ill.We talk of moons and cooling suns,Of geologic time and tide,The eternal sluggards that abideWhile our fair love so swiftly runs,Of nature that doth half consentThat man should guess her dreary schemeLest he should live too well contentIn his fair house of mirth and dream:Whose labour irks his ageing heart,His heart that wearies of desire,Being so fugitive a partOf what so slowly must expire.She in her agelong toil and carePersistent, wearies not nor stays,Mocking alike hope and despair.—Ah, but she too can mock our praise,Enchanted on her brighter days,Days, that the thought of grief refuse,Days that are one with human art,Worthy of the Virgilian muse,Fit for the gaiety of Mozart.
The sea keeps not the Sabbath day,His waves come rolling evermore;His noisy toil grindeth the shore,And all the cliff is drencht with spray.
The sea keeps not the Sabbath day,
His waves come rolling evermore;
His noisy toil grindeth the shore,
And all the cliff is drencht with spray.
Here as we sit, my love and I,Under the pine upon the hill,The sadness of the clouded sky,The bitter wind, the gloomy roar,The seamew’s melancholy cryWith loving fancy suit but ill.
Here as we sit, my love and I,
Under the pine upon the hill,
The sadness of the clouded sky,
The bitter wind, the gloomy roar,
The seamew’s melancholy cry
With loving fancy suit but ill.
We talk of moons and cooling suns,Of geologic time and tide,The eternal sluggards that abideWhile our fair love so swiftly runs,
We talk of moons and cooling suns,
Of geologic time and tide,
The eternal sluggards that abide
While our fair love so swiftly runs,
Of nature that doth half consentThat man should guess her dreary schemeLest he should live too well contentIn his fair house of mirth and dream:
Of nature that doth half consent
That man should guess her dreary scheme
Lest he should live too well content
In his fair house of mirth and dream:
Whose labour irks his ageing heart,His heart that wearies of desire,Being so fugitive a partOf what so slowly must expire.
Whose labour irks his ageing heart,
His heart that wearies of desire,
Being so fugitive a part
Of what so slowly must expire.
She in her agelong toil and carePersistent, wearies not nor stays,Mocking alike hope and despair.
She in her agelong toil and care
Persistent, wearies not nor stays,
Mocking alike hope and despair.
—Ah, but she too can mock our praise,Enchanted on her brighter days,
—Ah, but she too can mock our praise,
Enchanted on her brighter days,
Days, that the thought of grief refuse,Days that are one with human art,Worthy of the Virgilian muse,Fit for the gaiety of Mozart.
Days, that the thought of grief refuse,
Days that are one with human art,
Worthy of the Virgilian muse,
Fit for the gaiety of Mozart.