HHIGH above hate I dwell:O storms! farewell.Though at my sill your daggered thunders play,Lawless and loud to-morrow as to-day,To me they sound more smallThan a young fay’s footfall:Soft and far-sunken, forty fathoms lowIn Long Ago,And winnowed into silence on that windWhich takes wars like a dust, and leaves but love behind.Hither FelicityDoth climb to me,And bank me in with turf and marjoramSuch as bees lip, or the new-weanèd lamb;With golden barberry-wreath,And bluets thick beneath;One grosbeak, too, mid apple-buds a guestWith bud-red breast,Is singing, singing! All the hells that rageFloat less than April fog below our hermitage.
HHIGH above hate I dwell:O storms! farewell.Though at my sill your daggered thunders play,Lawless and loud to-morrow as to-day,To me they sound more smallThan a young fay’s footfall:Soft and far-sunken, forty fathoms lowIn Long Ago,And winnowed into silence on that windWhich takes wars like a dust, and leaves but love behind.Hither FelicityDoth climb to me,And bank me in with turf and marjoramSuch as bees lip, or the new-weanèd lamb;With golden barberry-wreath,And bluets thick beneath;One grosbeak, too, mid apple-buds a guestWith bud-red breast,Is singing, singing! All the hells that rageFloat less than April fog below our hermitage.
HHIGH above hate I dwell:O storms! farewell.Though at my sill your daggered thunders play,Lawless and loud to-morrow as to-day,To me they sound more smallThan a young fay’s footfall:Soft and far-sunken, forty fathoms lowIn Long Ago,And winnowed into silence on that windWhich takes wars like a dust, and leaves but love behind.
H
HIGH above hate I dwell:
O storms! farewell.
Though at my sill your daggered thunders play,
Lawless and loud to-morrow as to-day,
To me they sound more small
Than a young fay’s footfall:
Soft and far-sunken, forty fathoms low
In Long Ago,
And winnowed into silence on that wind
Which takes wars like a dust, and leaves but love behind.
Hither FelicityDoth climb to me,And bank me in with turf and marjoramSuch as bees lip, or the new-weanèd lamb;With golden barberry-wreath,And bluets thick beneath;One grosbeak, too, mid apple-buds a guestWith bud-red breast,Is singing, singing! All the hells that rageFloat less than April fog below our hermitage.
Hither Felicity
Doth climb to me,
And bank me in with turf and marjoram
Such as bees lip, or the new-weanèd lamb;
With golden barberry-wreath,
And bluets thick beneath;
One grosbeak, too, mid apple-buds a guest
With bud-red breast,
Is singing, singing! All the hells that rage
Float less than April fog below our hermitage.