'I saw their starved lips in the gloam With horrid warning gapéd wide, And I awoke and found me here
On the cold hill's side.
'And this is why I sojourn here Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake, And no birds sing.'
ON THE GRAsshopper and Cricket
THE poetry of earth is never dead;
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead; That is the grasshopper's-he takes the lead In summer luxury, he has never done With his delights, for when tired out with fun He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
On a lone winter evening, when the frost Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills The cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever, And seems to one in drowsiness half lost, The grasshopper's among some grassy hills.
ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER MUCH have I travell'd in the realms of gold And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne: Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
-Then felt I like some watcher of the skies. When a new planet swims into his ken; Or like stout Cortez-when with eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific-and all his men Look'd at each other with a wild surmise- Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
O SOFT embalmer of the still midnight! Shutting with careful fingers and benign Our gloom-pleased eyes, embower'd from the light, Enshaded in forgetfulness divine;
O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close, In midst of this thine hymn, my willing eyes, Or wait the amen, ere thy poppy throws Around my bed its lulling charities;
Then save me, or the passèd day will shine Upon my pillow, breeding many woes;
Save me from curious conscience, that still lords
Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole;
Turn the key deftly in the oilèd wards,
And seal the hushèd casket of my soul.
THE HUMAN SEASONS
FOUR Seasons fill the measure of the year; There are four seasons in the mind of Man: He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear Takes in all beauty with an easy span:
He has his Summer, when luxuriously Spring's honey'd cud of youthful thought he loves. To ruminate, and by such dreaming high Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves
His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings He furleth close; contented so to look On mists in idleness-to let fair things Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook:-
He has his Winter too of pale misfeature, Or else he would forego his mortal nature.
GREAT SPIRITS Now ON EARTH ARE SOJOURNING
GREAT spirits now on earth are sojourning; He of the cloud, the cataract, the lake, Who on Helvellyn's summit, wide awake, Catches his freshness from Archangel's wing; He of the rose, the violet, the spring,
The social smile, the chain for Freedom's sake: And lo!-whose steadfastness would never take A meaner sound than Raphael's whispering. And other spirits there are standing apart Upon the forehead of the age to come; These, these will give the world another heart And other pulses. Hear ye not the hum Of mighty workings in the human mart? Listen awhile, ye nations, and be dumb.
WHEN I have fears that I may cease to be Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain, Before high-piléd books, in charact'ry
Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain;
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair Creature of an hour! That I shall never look upon thee more, Never have relish in the fairy power Of unreflecting love-then on the shore. Of the wide world I stand alone, and think Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.
BRIGHT STAR! would I were steadfast as thou art: Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night, And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task Of pure ablution round earth's human shores, Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask Of snow upon the mountains and the moors:-
No-yet still steadfast, still unchangeable, Pillow'd upon my fair Love's ripening breast To feel for ever its soft fall and swell, Awake for ever in a sweet unrest;
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, And so live ever, or else swoon to death.
Ан, what avails the sceptred race! Ah, what the form divine! What every virtue, every grace! Rose Aylmer, all were thine.
Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes May weep, but never see,
A night of memories and sighs I consecrate to thee.
TWENTY years hence my eyes may grow, If not quite dim, yet rather so;
Yet yours from others they shall know, Twenty years hence.
Twenty years hence, though it may hap That I be call'd to take a nap
In a cool cell where thunder-clap Was never heard,
There breathe but o'er my arch of grass A not too sadly sigh'd 'Alas!'
And I shall catch, ere you can pass, That winged word.
PROUD WORD YOU NEVER SPOKE
PROUD word you never spoke, but you will speak Four not exempt from pride some future day. Resting on one white hand a warm wet cheek, Over my open volume you will say,
'This man loved me'-then rise and trip away.
HERE, ever since you went abroad,
If there be change, no change I see:
I only walk our wonted road,
The road is only walk'd by me.
Yes; I forgot; a change there is- Was it of that you bade me tell? I catch at times, at times I miss
The sight, the tone, I know so well.
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