ROMANCERomance, who loves to nod and sing,With drowsy head and folded wing,Among the green leaves as they shakeFar down within some shadowy lake,To me a painted paroquetHath been—a most familiar bird—Taught me my alphabet to say—To lisp my very earliest wordWhile in the wild wood I did lie,A child—with a most knowing eye.Of late, eternal Condor yearsSo shake the very Heaven on highWith tumult as they thunder by,I have no time for idle caresThrough gazing on the unquiet sky.And when an hour with calmer wingsIts down upon thy spirit flings—That little time with lyre and rhymeTo while away—forbidden things!My heart would feel to be a crimeUnless it trembled with the strings.1829.
Romance, who loves to nod and sing,With drowsy head and folded wing,Among the green leaves as they shakeFar down within some shadowy lake,To me a painted paroquetHath been—a most familiar bird—Taught me my alphabet to say—To lisp my very earliest wordWhile in the wild wood I did lie,A child—with a most knowing eye.Of late, eternal Condor yearsSo shake the very Heaven on highWith tumult as they thunder by,I have no time for idle caresThrough gazing on the unquiet sky.And when an hour with calmer wingsIts down upon thy spirit flings—That little time with lyre and rhymeTo while away—forbidden things!My heart would feel to be a crimeUnless it trembled with the strings.1829.