Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shedTheir snow-white blossoms on my head,With brightest sunshine round me spreadOf Spring's unclouded weather,In this sequester'd nook how sweetTo sit upon my orchard-seat!And flowers and birds once more to greet,My last year's friends together.One have I mark'd, the happiest guestIn all this covert of the blest:Hail to Thee, far above the restIn joy of voice and pinion!Thou, Linnet! in thy green arrayPresiding Spirit here to-dayDost lead the revels of the May;And this is thy dominion.While birds, and butterflies, and flowers,Make all one band of paramours,Thou, ranging up and down the bowers,Art sole in thy employment;A Life, a Presence like the air,Scattering thy gladness without care,Too blest with any one to pair;Thyself thy own enjoyment.Amid yon tuft of hazel treesThat twinkle to the gusty breeze,Behold him perch'd in ecstasiesYet seeming still to hover;There! where the flutter of his wingsUpon his back and body flingsShadows and sunny glimmerings,That cover him all over.My dazzled sight he oft deceives—A brother of the dancing leaves;Then flits, and from the cottage-eavesPours forth his song in gushes;As if by that exulting strainHe mock'd and treated with disdainThe voiceless Form he chose to feign,While fluttering in the bushes.
Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shedTheir snow-white blossoms on my head,With brightest sunshine round me spreadOf Spring's unclouded weather,In this sequester'd nook how sweetTo sit upon my orchard-seat!And flowers and birds once more to greet,My last year's friends together.
One have I mark'd, the happiest guestIn all this covert of the blest:Hail to Thee, far above the restIn joy of voice and pinion!Thou, Linnet! in thy green arrayPresiding Spirit here to-dayDost lead the revels of the May;And this is thy dominion.
While birds, and butterflies, and flowers,Make all one band of paramours,Thou, ranging up and down the bowers,Art sole in thy employment;A Life, a Presence like the air,Scattering thy gladness without care,Too blest with any one to pair;Thyself thy own enjoyment.
Amid yon tuft of hazel treesThat twinkle to the gusty breeze,Behold him perch'd in ecstasiesYet seeming still to hover;There! where the flutter of his wingsUpon his back and body flingsShadows and sunny glimmerings,That cover him all over.
My dazzled sight he oft deceives—A brother of the dancing leaves;Then flits, and from the cottage-eavesPours forth his song in gushes;As if by that exulting strainHe mock'd and treated with disdainThe voiceless Form he chose to feign,While fluttering in the bushes.
W. Wordsworth
O blithe new-comer! I have heard,I hear thee and rejoice:O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,Or but a wandering Voice?While I am lying on the grassThy twofold shout I hear;From hill to hill it seems to pass,At once far off and near.Though babbling only to the valeOf sunshine and of flowers,Thou bringest unto me a taleOf visionary hours.Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!Even yet thou art to meNo bird, but an invisible thing,A voice, a mystery;The same whom in my school-boy daysI listen'd to; that CryWhich made me look a thousand waysIn bush, and tree, and sky.To seek thee did I often roveThrough woods and on the green;And thou wert still a hope, a love;Still long'd for, never seen!And I can listen to thee yet;Can lie upon the plainAnd listen, till I do begetThat golden time again.O blesséd Bird! the earth we paceAgain appears to beAn unsubstantial, faery place,That is fit home for Thee!
O blithe new-comer! I have heard,I hear thee and rejoice:O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,Or but a wandering Voice?
While I am lying on the grassThy twofold shout I hear;From hill to hill it seems to pass,At once far off and near.
Though babbling only to the valeOf sunshine and of flowers,Thou bringest unto me a taleOf visionary hours.
Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!Even yet thou art to meNo bird, but an invisible thing,A voice, a mystery;
The same whom in my school-boy daysI listen'd to; that CryWhich made me look a thousand waysIn bush, and tree, and sky.
To seek thee did I often roveThrough woods and on the green;And thou wert still a hope, a love;Still long'd for, never seen!
And I can listen to thee yet;Can lie upon the plainAnd listen, till I do begetThat golden time again.
O blesséd Bird! the earth we paceAgain appears to beAn unsubstantial, faery place,That is fit home for Thee!
W. Wordsworth
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness painsMy sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,Or emptied some dull opiate to the drainsOne minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,But being too happy in thine happiness,—That thou, light-wingéd Dryad of the trees,In some melodious plotOf beechen green, and shadows numberless,Singest of summer in full-throated ease.O, for a draught of vintage! that hath beenCool'd a long age in the deep-delvéd earth,Tasting of Flora and the country green,Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!O for a beaker full of the warm South,Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,And purple-stainéd mouth;That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,And with thee fade away into the forest dim:Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forgetWhat thou among the leaves hast never known,The weariness, the fever, and the fretHere, where men sit and hear each other groan;Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and diesWhere but to think is to be full of sorrowAnd leaden-eyed despairs;Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.Away! away! for I will fly to thee,Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,But on the viewless wings of Poesy,Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:Already with thee! tender is the night,And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;But here there is no light,Save what from heaven is with the breezes blownThrough verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,But, in embalméd darkness, guess each sweetWherewith the seasonable month endowsThe grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;And mid-May's eldest child,The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.Darkling I listen; and for many a timeI have been half in love with easeful Death,Call'd him soft names in many a muséd rhyme,To take into the air my quiet breath;Now more than ever seems it rich to die,To cease upon the midnight with no pain,While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroadIn such an ecstasy!Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—To thy high requiem become a sod.Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!No hungry generations tread thee down;The voice I hear this passing night was heardIn ancient days by emperor and clown:Perhaps the self-same song that found a pathThrough the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,She stood in tears amid the alien corn;The same that oft-times hathCharm'd magic casements, opening on the foamOf perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.Forlorn! the very word is like a bellTo toll me back from thee to my sole self!Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so wellAs she is famed to do, deceiving elf.Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fadesPast the near meadows, over the still stream,Up the hillside; and now 'tis buried deepIn the next valley-glades:Was it a vision, or a waking dream?Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness painsMy sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,Or emptied some dull opiate to the drainsOne minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,But being too happy in thine happiness,—That thou, light-wingéd Dryad of the trees,In some melodious plotOf beechen green, and shadows numberless,Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
O, for a draught of vintage! that hath beenCool'd a long age in the deep-delvéd earth,Tasting of Flora and the country green,Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!O for a beaker full of the warm South,Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,And purple-stainéd mouth;That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forgetWhat thou among the leaves hast never known,The weariness, the fever, and the fretHere, where men sit and hear each other groan;Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and diesWhere but to think is to be full of sorrowAnd leaden-eyed despairs;Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,But on the viewless wings of Poesy,Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:Already with thee! tender is the night,And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;But here there is no light,Save what from heaven is with the breezes blownThrough verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,But, in embalméd darkness, guess each sweetWherewith the seasonable month endowsThe grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;And mid-May's eldest child,The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
Darkling I listen; and for many a timeI have been half in love with easeful Death,Call'd him soft names in many a muséd rhyme,To take into the air my quiet breath;Now more than ever seems it rich to die,To cease upon the midnight with no pain,While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroadIn such an ecstasy!Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—To thy high requiem become a sod.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!No hungry generations tread thee down;The voice I hear this passing night was heardIn ancient days by emperor and clown:Perhaps the self-same song that found a pathThrough the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,She stood in tears amid the alien corn;The same that oft-times hathCharm'd magic casements, opening on the foamOf perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Forlorn! the very word is like a bellTo toll me back from thee to my sole self!Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so wellAs she is famed to do, deceiving elf.Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fadesPast the near meadows, over the still stream,Up the hillside; and now 'tis buried deepIn the next valley-glades:Was it a vision, or a waking dream?Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?
J. Keats
Earth has not anything to show more fair:Dull would he be of soul who could pass byA sight so touching in its majesty:This City now doth like a garment wearThe beauty of the morning: silent, bare,Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lieOpen unto the fields, and to the sky,—All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.Never did sun more beautifully steepIn his first splendour valley, rock, or hill;Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!The river glideth at his own sweet will:Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;And all that mighty heart is lying still!
Earth has not anything to show more fair:Dull would he be of soul who could pass byA sight so touching in its majesty:This City now doth like a garment wear
The beauty of the morning: silent, bare,Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lieOpen unto the fields, and to the sky,—All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steepIn his first splendour valley, rock, or hill;Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;And all that mighty heart is lying still!
W. Wordsworth
To one who has been long in city pent,'Tis very sweet to look into the fairAnd open face of heaven,—to breathe a prayerFull in the smile of the blue firmament.Who is more happy, when, with heart's content,Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lairOf wavy grass, and reads a debonairAnd gentle tale of love and languishment?Returning home at evening, with an earCatching the notes of Philomel,—an eyeWatching the sailing cloudlet's bright career,He mourns that day so soon has glided by:E'en like the passage of an angel's tearThat falls through the clear ether silently.
To one who has been long in city pent,'Tis very sweet to look into the fairAnd open face of heaven,—to breathe a prayerFull in the smile of the blue firmament.
Who is more happy, when, with heart's content,Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lairOf wavy grass, and reads a debonairAnd gentle tale of love and languishment?
Returning home at evening, with an earCatching the notes of Philomel,—an eyeWatching the sailing cloudlet's bright career,
He mourns that day so soon has glided by:E'en like the passage of an angel's tearThat falls through the clear ether silently.
J. Keats
I met a traveller from an antique landWho said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stoneStand in the desert. Near them on the sand,Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frownAnd wrinkled lip and sneer of cold commandTell that its sculptor well those passions readWhich yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed;And on the pedestal these words appear:'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'Nothing beside remains. Round the decayOf that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,The lone and level sands stretch far away.
I met a traveller from an antique landWho said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stoneStand in the desert. Near them on the sand,Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frownAnd wrinkled lip and sneer of cold commandTell that its sculptor well those passions readWhich yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed;And on the pedestal these words appear:'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'Nothing beside remains. Round the decayOf that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,The lone and level sands stretch far away.
P. B. Shelley
Degenerate Douglas! oh, the unworthy lord!Whom mere despite of heart could so far pleaseAnd love of havoc, (for with such diseaseFame taxes him,) that he could send forth wordTo level with the dust a noble horde,A brotherhood of venerable trees,Leaving an ancient dome, and towers like these,Beggar'd and outraged!—Many hearts deploredThe fate of those old trees; and oft with painThe traveller at this day will stop and gazeOn wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems to heed:For shelter'd places, bosoms, nooks, and bays,And the pure mountains, and the gentle Tweed,And the green silent pastures, yet remain.
Degenerate Douglas! oh, the unworthy lord!Whom mere despite of heart could so far pleaseAnd love of havoc, (for with such diseaseFame taxes him,) that he could send forth word
To level with the dust a noble horde,A brotherhood of venerable trees,Leaving an ancient dome, and towers like these,Beggar'd and outraged!—Many hearts deplored
The fate of those old trees; and oft with painThe traveller at this day will stop and gazeOn wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems to heed:
For shelter'd places, bosoms, nooks, and bays,And the pure mountains, and the gentle Tweed,And the green silent pastures, yet remain.
W. Wordsworth
O leave this barren spot to me!Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!Though bush or floweret never growMy dark unwarming shade below;Nor summer bud perfume the dewOf rosy blush, or yellow hue;Nor fruits of autumn, blossom-born,My green and glossy leaves adorn;Nor murmuring tribes from me deriveTh' ambrosial amber of the hive;Yet leave this barren spot to me:Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!Thrice twenty summers I have seenThe sky grow bright, the forest green;And many a wintry wind have stoodIn bloomless, fruitless solitude,Since childhood in my pleasant bowerFirst spent its sweet and sportive hour;Since youthful lovers in my shadeTheir vows of truth and rapture made,And on my trunk's surviving frameCarved many a long-forgotten name.Oh! by the sighs of gentle sound,First breathed upon this sacred ground;By all that Love has whisper'd here,Or Beauty heard with ravish'd ear;As Love's own altar honour me:Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!
O leave this barren spot to me!Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!Though bush or floweret never growMy dark unwarming shade below;Nor summer bud perfume the dewOf rosy blush, or yellow hue;Nor fruits of autumn, blossom-born,My green and glossy leaves adorn;Nor murmuring tribes from me deriveTh' ambrosial amber of the hive;Yet leave this barren spot to me:Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!
Thrice twenty summers I have seenThe sky grow bright, the forest green;And many a wintry wind have stoodIn bloomless, fruitless solitude,Since childhood in my pleasant bowerFirst spent its sweet and sportive hour;Since youthful lovers in my shadeTheir vows of truth and rapture made,And on my trunk's surviving frameCarved many a long-forgotten name.Oh! by the sighs of gentle sound,First breathed upon this sacred ground;By all that Love has whisper'd here,Or Beauty heard with ravish'd ear;As Love's own altar honour me:Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!
T. Campbell
Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye!—The lovely Cottage in the guardian nookHath stirr'd thee deeply; with its own dear brook,Its own small pasture, almost its own sky!But covet not the abode; forbear to sighAs many do, repining while they look;Intruders—who would tear from Nature's bookThis precious leaf with harsh impiety.—Think what the home must be if it were thine,Even thine, though few thy wants!—Roof, window, door,The very flowers are sacred to the Poor,The roses to the porch which they entwine:Yea, all that now enchants thee, from the dayOn which it should be touch'd, would melt away!
Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye!—The lovely Cottage in the guardian nookHath stirr'd thee deeply; with its own dear brook,Its own small pasture, almost its own sky!
But covet not the abode; forbear to sighAs many do, repining while they look;Intruders—who would tear from Nature's bookThis precious leaf with harsh impiety.
—Think what the home must be if it were thine,Even thine, though few thy wants!—Roof, window, door,The very flowers are sacred to the Poor,
The roses to the porch which they entwine:Yea, all that now enchants thee, from the dayOn which it should be touch'd, would melt away!
W. Wordsworth
Sweet Highland Girl, a very showerOf beauty is thy earthly dower!Twice seven consenting years have shedTheir utmost bounty on thy head:And these gray rocks, that household lawn,Those trees—a veil just half withdrawn,This fall of water that doth makeA murmur near the silent lake,This little bay, a quiet roadThat holds in shelter thy abode;In truth together ye do seemLike something fashion'd in a dream;Such forms as from their covert peepWhen earthly cares are laid asleep!But O fair Creature! in the lightOf common day, so heavenly bright,I bless Thee, Vision as thou art,I bless thee with a human heart:God shield thee to thy latest years!Thee neither know I nor thy peers:And yet my eyes are fill'd with tears.With earnest feeling I shall prayFor thee when I am far away;For never saw I mien or faceIn which more plainly I could traceBenignity and home-bred senseRipening in perfect innocence.Here scatter'd, like a random seed,Remote from men, Thou dost not needThe embarrass'd look of shy distress,And maidenly shamefacédness:Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clearThe freedom of a Mountaineer:A face with gladness overspread;Soft smiles, by human kindness bred;And seemliness complete, that swaysThy courtesies, about thee plays;With no restraint, but such as springsFrom quick and eager visitingsOf thoughts that lie beyond the reachOf thy few words of English speech:A bondage sweetly brook'd, a strifeThat gives thy gestures grace and life!So have I, not unmoved in mind,Seen birds of tempest-loving kind—Thus beating up against the wind.What hand but would a garland cullFor thee who art so beautiful?O happy pleasure! here to dwellBeside thee in some heathy dell;Adopt your homely ways, and dress,A shepherd, thou a shepherdess!But I could frame a wish for theeMore like a grave reality:Thou art to me but as a waveOf the wild sea: and I would haveSome claim upon thee, if I could,Though but of common neighbourhood.What joy to hear thee, and to see!Thy elder brother I would be,Thy father—anything to thee.Now thanks to Heaven! that of its graceHath led me to this lonely place:Joy have I had; and going henceI bear away my recompence.In spots like these it is we prizeOur Memory, feel that she hath eyes:Then why should I be loth to stir?I feel this place was made for her;To give new pleasure like the past,Continued long as life shall last.Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart,Sweet Highland Girl! from thee to part;For I, methinks, till I grow oldAs fair before me shall beholdAs I do now, the cabin small,The lake, the bay, the waterfall;And Thee, the Spirit of them all!
Sweet Highland Girl, a very showerOf beauty is thy earthly dower!Twice seven consenting years have shedTheir utmost bounty on thy head:And these gray rocks, that household lawn,Those trees—a veil just half withdrawn,This fall of water that doth makeA murmur near the silent lake,This little bay, a quiet roadThat holds in shelter thy abode;In truth together ye do seemLike something fashion'd in a dream;Such forms as from their covert peepWhen earthly cares are laid asleep!But O fair Creature! in the lightOf common day, so heavenly bright,I bless Thee, Vision as thou art,I bless thee with a human heart:God shield thee to thy latest years!Thee neither know I nor thy peers:And yet my eyes are fill'd with tears.
With earnest feeling I shall prayFor thee when I am far away;For never saw I mien or faceIn which more plainly I could traceBenignity and home-bred senseRipening in perfect innocence.Here scatter'd, like a random seed,Remote from men, Thou dost not needThe embarrass'd look of shy distress,And maidenly shamefacédness:Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clearThe freedom of a Mountaineer:A face with gladness overspread;Soft smiles, by human kindness bred;And seemliness complete, that swaysThy courtesies, about thee plays;With no restraint, but such as springsFrom quick and eager visitingsOf thoughts that lie beyond the reachOf thy few words of English speech:A bondage sweetly brook'd, a strifeThat gives thy gestures grace and life!So have I, not unmoved in mind,Seen birds of tempest-loving kind—Thus beating up against the wind.
What hand but would a garland cullFor thee who art so beautiful?O happy pleasure! here to dwellBeside thee in some heathy dell;Adopt your homely ways, and dress,A shepherd, thou a shepherdess!But I could frame a wish for theeMore like a grave reality:Thou art to me but as a waveOf the wild sea: and I would haveSome claim upon thee, if I could,Though but of common neighbourhood.What joy to hear thee, and to see!Thy elder brother I would be,Thy father—anything to thee.
Now thanks to Heaven! that of its graceHath led me to this lonely place:Joy have I had; and going henceI bear away my recompence.In spots like these it is we prizeOur Memory, feel that she hath eyes:Then why should I be loth to stir?I feel this place was made for her;To give new pleasure like the past,Continued long as life shall last.Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart,Sweet Highland Girl! from thee to part;For I, methinks, till I grow oldAs fair before me shall beholdAs I do now, the cabin small,The lake, the bay, the waterfall;And Thee, the Spirit of them all!
W. Wordsworth
Behold her, single in the field,Yon solitary Highland Lass!Reaping and singing by herself;Stop here, or gently pass!Alone she cuts and binds the grain,And sings a melancholy strain;O listen! for the vale profoundIs overflowing with the sound.No nightingale did ever chauntMore welcome notes to weary bandsOf travellers in some shady haunt,Among Arabian sands:A voice so thrilling ne'er was heardIn spring-time from the cuckoo-bird,Breaking the silence of the seasAmong the farthest Hebrides.Will no one tell me what she sings?Perhaps the plaintive numbers flowFor old, unhappy, far-off things,And battles long ago:Or is it some more humble lay,Familiar matter of to-day?Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,That has been, and may be again!Whate'er the theme, the maiden sangAs if her song could have no ending;I saw her singing at her work,And o'er the sickle bending;—I listen'd, motionless and still;And, as I mounted up the hill,The music in my heart I boreLong after it was heard no more.
Behold her, single in the field,Yon solitary Highland Lass!Reaping and singing by herself;Stop here, or gently pass!Alone she cuts and binds the grain,And sings a melancholy strain;O listen! for the vale profoundIs overflowing with the sound.
No nightingale did ever chauntMore welcome notes to weary bandsOf travellers in some shady haunt,Among Arabian sands:A voice so thrilling ne'er was heardIn spring-time from the cuckoo-bird,Breaking the silence of the seasAmong the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings?Perhaps the plaintive numbers flowFor old, unhappy, far-off things,And battles long ago:Or is it some more humble lay,Familiar matter of to-day?Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,That has been, and may be again!
Whate'er the theme, the maiden sangAs if her song could have no ending;I saw her singing at her work,And o'er the sickle bending;—I listen'd, motionless and still;And, as I mounted up the hill,The music in my heart I boreLong after it was heard no more.
W. Wordsworth
At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears,Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years:Poor Susan has pass'd by the spot, and has heardIn the silence of morning the song of the bird.'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She seesA mountain ascending, a vision of trees;Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.Green pastures she views in the midst of the daleDown which she so often has tripp'd with her pail;And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's,The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade,The mist and the river, the hill and the shade;The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,And the colours have all pass'd away from her eyes!
At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears,Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years:Poor Susan has pass'd by the spot, and has heardIn the silence of morning the song of the bird.
'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She seesA mountain ascending, a vision of trees;Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.
Green pastures she views in the midst of the daleDown which she so often has tripp'd with her pail;And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's,The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.
She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade,The mist and the river, the hill and the shade;The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,And the colours have all pass'd away from her eyes!
W. Wordsworth
Ariel to Miranda:—TakeThis slave of music, for the sakeOf him, who is the slave of thee;And teach it all the harmonyIn which thou canst, and only thou,Make the delighted spirit glow,Till joy denies itself againAnd, too intense, is turn'd to pain.For by permission and commandOf thine own Prince Ferdinand,Poor Ariel sends this silent tokenOf more than ever can be spoken;Your guardian spirit, Ariel, whoFrom life to life must still pursueYour happiness, for thus aloneCan Ariel ever find his own.From Prospero's enchanted cell,As the mighty verses tell,To the throne of Naples heLit you o'er the trackless sea,Flitting on, your prow before,Like a living meteor.When you die, the silent MoonIn her interlunar swoonIs not sadder in her cellThan deserted Ariel:—When you live again on earth,Like an unseen Star of birthAriel guides you o'er the seaOf life from your nativity:—Many changes have been runSince Ferdinand and you begunYour course of love, and Ariel stillHas track'd your steps and served your will.Now in humbler, happier lot,This is all remember'd not;And now, alas! the poor Sprite isImprison'd for some fault of hisIn a body like a grave—From you he only dares to crave,For his service and his sorrowA smile to-day, a song to-morrow.The artist who this idol wroughtTo echo all harmonious thought,Fell'd a tree, while on the steepThe woods were in their winter sleep,Rock'd in that repose divineOn the wind-swept Apennine;And dreaming, some of Autumn past,And some of Spring approaching fast,And some of April buds and showers,And some of songs in July bowers,And all of love: And so this tree,—Oh that such our death may be!—Died in sleep, and felt no pain,To live in happier form again:From which, beneath heaven's fairest star,The artist wrought this loved Guitar;And taught it justly to replyTo all who question skilfullyIn language gentle as thine own;Whispering in enamour'd toneSweet oracles of woods and dells,And summer winds in sylvan cells:—For it had learnt all harmoniesOf the plains and of the skies,Of the forests and the mountains,And the many-voicéd fountains;The clearest echoes of the hills,The softest notes of falling rills,The melodies of birds and bees,The murmuring of summer seas,And pattering rain, and breathing dew,And airs of evening; and it knewThat seldom-heard mysterious soundWhich, driven on its diurnal round,As it floats through boundless day,Our world enkindles on its way:—All this it knows, but will not tellTo those who cannot question wellThe Spirit that inhabits it;It talks according to the witOf its companions; and no moreIs heard than has been felt beforeBy those who tempt it to betrayThese secrets of an elder day.But, sweetly as its answers willFlatter hands of perfect skill,It keeps its highest holiest toneFor our beloved Friend alone.
Ariel to Miranda:—TakeThis slave of music, for the sakeOf him, who is the slave of thee;And teach it all the harmonyIn which thou canst, and only thou,Make the delighted spirit glow,Till joy denies itself againAnd, too intense, is turn'd to pain.For by permission and commandOf thine own Prince Ferdinand,Poor Ariel sends this silent tokenOf more than ever can be spoken;Your guardian spirit, Ariel, whoFrom life to life must still pursueYour happiness, for thus aloneCan Ariel ever find his own.From Prospero's enchanted cell,As the mighty verses tell,To the throne of Naples heLit you o'er the trackless sea,Flitting on, your prow before,Like a living meteor.When you die, the silent MoonIn her interlunar swoonIs not sadder in her cellThan deserted Ariel:—When you live again on earth,Like an unseen Star of birthAriel guides you o'er the seaOf life from your nativity:—Many changes have been runSince Ferdinand and you begunYour course of love, and Ariel stillHas track'd your steps and served your will.Now in humbler, happier lot,This is all remember'd not;And now, alas! the poor Sprite isImprison'd for some fault of hisIn a body like a grave—From you he only dares to crave,For his service and his sorrowA smile to-day, a song to-morrow.
The artist who this idol wroughtTo echo all harmonious thought,Fell'd a tree, while on the steepThe woods were in their winter sleep,Rock'd in that repose divineOn the wind-swept Apennine;And dreaming, some of Autumn past,And some of Spring approaching fast,And some of April buds and showers,And some of songs in July bowers,And all of love: And so this tree,—Oh that such our death may be!—Died in sleep, and felt no pain,To live in happier form again:From which, beneath heaven's fairest star,The artist wrought this loved Guitar;And taught it justly to replyTo all who question skilfullyIn language gentle as thine own;Whispering in enamour'd toneSweet oracles of woods and dells,And summer winds in sylvan cells:—For it had learnt all harmoniesOf the plains and of the skies,Of the forests and the mountains,And the many-voicéd fountains;The clearest echoes of the hills,The softest notes of falling rills,The melodies of birds and bees,The murmuring of summer seas,And pattering rain, and breathing dew,And airs of evening; and it knewThat seldom-heard mysterious soundWhich, driven on its diurnal round,As it floats through boundless day,Our world enkindles on its way:—All this it knows, but will not tellTo those who cannot question wellThe Spirit that inhabits it;It talks according to the witOf its companions; and no moreIs heard than has been felt beforeBy those who tempt it to betrayThese secrets of an elder day.But, sweetly as its answers willFlatter hands of perfect skill,It keeps its highest holiest toneFor our beloved Friend alone.
P. B. Shelley
I wander'd lonely as a cloudThat floats on high o'er vales and hills,When all at once I saw a crowd,A host of golden daffodils,Beside the lake, beneath the trees,Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.Continuous as the stars that shineAnd twinkle on the milky way,They stretch'd in never-ending lineAlong the margin of a bay:Ten thousand saw I at a glanceTossing their heads in sprightly dance.The waves beside them danced, but theyOut-did the sparkling waves in glee:—A Poet could not but be gayIn such a jocund company!I gazed—and gazed—but little thoughtWhat wealth the show to me had brought;For oft, when on my couch I lieIn vacant or in pensive mood,They flash upon that inward eyeWhich is the bliss of solitude;And then my heart with pleasure fills,And dances with the daffodils.
I wander'd lonely as a cloudThat floats on high o'er vales and hills,When all at once I saw a crowd,A host of golden daffodils,Beside the lake, beneath the trees,Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shineAnd twinkle on the milky way,They stretch'd in never-ending lineAlong the margin of a bay:Ten thousand saw I at a glanceTossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but theyOut-did the sparkling waves in glee:—A Poet could not but be gayIn such a jocund company!I gazed—and gazed—but little thoughtWhat wealth the show to me had brought;
For oft, when on my couch I lieIn vacant or in pensive mood,They flash upon that inward eyeWhich is the bliss of solitude;And then my heart with pleasure fills,And dances with the daffodils.
W. Wordsworth
With little here to do or seeOf things that in the great world be,Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to theeFor thou art worthy,Thou unassuming Common-placeOf Nature, with that homely face,And yet with something of a graceWhich Love makes for thee!Oft on the dappled turf at easeI sit and play with similes,Loose types of things through all degrees,Thoughts of thy raising;And many a fond and idle nameI give to thee, for praise or blameAs is the humour of the game,While I am gazing.A nun demure, of lowly port;Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court,In thy simplicity the sportOf all temptations;A queen in crown of rubies drest;A starveling in a scanty vest;Are all, as seems to suit thee best,Thy appellations.A little Cyclops, with one eyeStaring to threaten and defy,That thought comes next—and instantlyThe freak is over,The shape will vanish, and behold!A silver shield with boss of goldThat spreads itself, some faery boldIn fight to cover.I see thee glittering from afar—And then thou art a pretty star,Not quite so fair as many areIn heaven above thee!Yet like a star, with glittering crest,Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest;—May peace come never to his nestWho shall reprove thee!Sweet Flower! for by that name at lastWhen all my reveries are pastI call thee, and to that cleave fast,Sweet silent Creature!That breath'st with me in sun and air,Do thou, as thou art wont, repairMy heart with gladness, and a shareOf thy meek nature!
With little here to do or seeOf things that in the great world be,Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to theeFor thou art worthy,Thou unassuming Common-placeOf Nature, with that homely face,And yet with something of a graceWhich Love makes for thee!
Oft on the dappled turf at easeI sit and play with similes,Loose types of things through all degrees,Thoughts of thy raising;And many a fond and idle nameI give to thee, for praise or blameAs is the humour of the game,While I am gazing.
A nun demure, of lowly port;Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court,In thy simplicity the sportOf all temptations;A queen in crown of rubies drest;A starveling in a scanty vest;Are all, as seems to suit thee best,Thy appellations.
A little Cyclops, with one eyeStaring to threaten and defy,That thought comes next—and instantlyThe freak is over,The shape will vanish, and behold!A silver shield with boss of goldThat spreads itself, some faery boldIn fight to cover.
I see thee glittering from afar—And then thou art a pretty star,Not quite so fair as many areIn heaven above thee!Yet like a star, with glittering crest,Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest;—May peace come never to his nestWho shall reprove thee!
Sweet Flower! for by that name at lastWhen all my reveries are pastI call thee, and to that cleave fast,Sweet silent Creature!That breath'st with me in sun and air,Do thou, as thou art wont, repairMy heart with gladness, and a shareOf thy meek nature!
W. Wordsworth
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;Conspiring with him how to load and blessWith fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shellsWith a sweet kernel; to set budding more,And still more, later flowers for the bees,Until they think warm days will never cease;For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells.Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may findThee sitting careless on a granary floor,Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hookSpares the next swath and all its twinéd flowers:And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keepSteady thy laden head across a brook;Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—While barréd clouds bloom the soft-dying dayAnd touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mournAmong the river-sallows, borne aloftOr sinking as the light wind lives or dies;And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble softThe red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;Conspiring with him how to load and blessWith fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shellsWith a sweet kernel; to set budding more,And still more, later flowers for the bees,Until they think warm days will never cease;For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may findThee sitting careless on a granary floor,Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hookSpares the next swath and all its twinéd flowers:And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keepSteady thy laden head across a brook;Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—While barréd clouds bloom the soft-dying dayAnd touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mournAmong the river-sallows, borne aloftOr sinking as the light wind lives or dies;And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble softThe red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
J. Keats
Germany, December, 1800
When first the fiery-mantled SunHis heavenly race began to run,Round the earth and ocean blueHis children four the Seasons flew.First, in green apparel dancing,The young Spring smiled with angel-grace;Rosy Summer next advancing,Rush'd into her sire's embrace—Her bright-hair'd sire, who bade her keepFor ever nearest to his smiles,On Calpe's olive-shaded steepOr India's citron-cover'd isles:More remote, and buxom-brown,The Queen of vintage bow'd before his throne;A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown,A ripe sheaf bound her zone.But howling Winter fled afarTo hills that prop the polar star;And loves on deer-borne car to rideWith barren darkness by his side,Round the shore where loud LofodenWhirls to death the roaring whale;Round the hall where Runic OdinHowls his war-song to the gale;Save when adown the ravaged globeHe travels on his native storm,Deflowering Nature's grassy robeAnd trampling on her faded form:—Till light's returning Lord assumeThe shaft that drives him to his polar field,Of power to pierce his raven plumeAnd crystal-cover'd shield.Oh, sire of storms! whose savage earThe Lapland drum delights to hear,When Frenzy with her blood-shot eyeImplores thy dreadful deity—Archangel! Power of desolation!Fast descending as thou art,Say, hath mortal invocationSpells to touch thy stony heart?Then, sullen Winter! hear my prayer,And gently rule the ruin'd year;Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bareNor freeze the wretch's falling tear:To shuddering Want's unmantled bedThy horror-breathing agues cease to lend,And gently on the orphan headOf Innocence descend.But chiefly spare, O king of clouds!The sailor on his airy shrouds,When wrecks and beacons strew the steep,And spectres walk along the deep.Milder yet thy snowy breezesPour on yonder tented shores,Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes,Or the dark-brown Danube roars.Oh, winds of Winter! list ye thereTo many a deep and dying groan?Or start, ye demons of the midnight air,At shrieks and thunders louder than your own?Alas! ev'n your unhallow'd breathMay spare the victim fallen low;But Man will ask no truce to death,—No bounds to human woe.
When first the fiery-mantled SunHis heavenly race began to run,Round the earth and ocean blueHis children four the Seasons flew.First, in green apparel dancing,The young Spring smiled with angel-grace;Rosy Summer next advancing,Rush'd into her sire's embrace—Her bright-hair'd sire, who bade her keepFor ever nearest to his smiles,On Calpe's olive-shaded steepOr India's citron-cover'd isles:More remote, and buxom-brown,The Queen of vintage bow'd before his throne;A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown,A ripe sheaf bound her zone.
But howling Winter fled afarTo hills that prop the polar star;And loves on deer-borne car to rideWith barren darkness by his side,Round the shore where loud LofodenWhirls to death the roaring whale;Round the hall where Runic OdinHowls his war-song to the gale;Save when adown the ravaged globeHe travels on his native storm,Deflowering Nature's grassy robeAnd trampling on her faded form:—Till light's returning Lord assumeThe shaft that drives him to his polar field,Of power to pierce his raven plumeAnd crystal-cover'd shield.
Oh, sire of storms! whose savage earThe Lapland drum delights to hear,When Frenzy with her blood-shot eyeImplores thy dreadful deity—Archangel! Power of desolation!Fast descending as thou art,Say, hath mortal invocationSpells to touch thy stony heart?Then, sullen Winter! hear my prayer,And gently rule the ruin'd year;Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bareNor freeze the wretch's falling tear:To shuddering Want's unmantled bedThy horror-breathing agues cease to lend,And gently on the orphan headOf Innocence descend.
But chiefly spare, O king of clouds!The sailor on his airy shrouds,When wrecks and beacons strew the steep,And spectres walk along the deep.Milder yet thy snowy breezesPour on yonder tented shores,Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes,Or the dark-brown Danube roars.Oh, winds of Winter! list ye thereTo many a deep and dying groan?Or start, ye demons of the midnight air,At shrieks and thunders louder than your own?Alas! ev'n your unhallow'd breathMay spare the victim fallen low;But Man will ask no truce to death,—No bounds to human woe.
T. Campbell
1803