Still from one sorrow to another | With winds upon the branch, and there thrown; Nor ever fold our wings, 20 And cease from wanderings, Nor harken what the inner spirit sings, III Lo! in the middle of the wood, The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud Grows green and broad, and takes nc And dear the last embraces of wives And their warm tears; but all hat suffer'd change; For surely now our household hearth are cold, Our sons inherit us, our looks at strange, And we should come like ghosts t trouble joy. Or else the island princes over-bold Have eat our substance, and the min strel sings Before them of the ten years' war in Troy, And our great deeds, as half-forgotter things. Is there confusion in the little isle ? Sore task to hearts worn out by many wars And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars. VII But, propt on beds of amaranth and With half-dropt eyelid still, His waters from the purple hill- To watch the emerald-color'd water falling Thro' many a woven acanthus-wreath divine! Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine, Only to hear were sweet, stretch'd out beneath the pine. Dear is the memory of our wedded The Lotos blows by every winding lives, creek; 1 day the wind breathes low with O rest ye, brother mariners, we will mellower tone; iro' every hollow cave and alley lone ound and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos-dust is blown. 'e have had enough of action, and of motion we, oll'd to starboard, roll'd to larboard, when the surge was seething free, 'here the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains in the sea. et us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind, not wander more. DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN I READ, before my eyelids dropt their shade, 'The Legend of Good Women,' long ago Sung by the morning star of song, who made His music heard below; 1 the hollow Lotos-land to live and Dan Chaucer, the first warbler, whose lie reclined sweet breath Preluded those melodious bursts that fill or they lie beside their nectar, and The spacious times of great Eliza the bolts are hurl'd 'ar below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curl'd ound their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world; Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands, light and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and fiery sands, langing fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and praying hands. But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful song Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong, Like a tale of little meaning tho' the words are strong; Chanted from an ill-used race of men |