Fountain-head and source of rivers,
Dew-cloth, dream-drapery,
And napkin spread by fays;
Drifting meadow of the air,
Where bloom the daisied banks and violets,
And in whose fenny labyrinth
The bittern booms and heron wades;
Spirit of lakes and seas and rivers,
Bear only perfumes and the scent
Of healing herbs to just men’s fields!
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Within the circuit of this plodding life
Untarnished fair as is the violetOr anemone, when the spring strews themBy some meandering rivulet, which makeThe best philosophy untrue that aimsBut to console man for his grievancesI have remembered when the winter came,High in my chamber in the frosty nights,When in the still light of the cheerful moon,On every twig and rail and jutting…
They who prepare my evening meal below
With tongs or shovel,And ringing round and round,Out of this hovelIt makes an eastern temple by the sound.At first I thought a cow bell right at handMid birches sounded o’er the open land,Where I plucked flowersMany years ago,Spending midsummer hoursWith such secure delight they hardly seemed to flow.
On fields o’er which the reaper’s hand has pass’d
My thoughts like stubble floating in the windAnd of such fineness as October airs,There after harvest could I glean my lifeA richer harvest reaping without toil,And weaving gorgeous fancies at my willIn subtler webs than finest summer haze.
There is health in thy gray wing,
Say, thou modern-winged antique,Was thy mistress ever sick?In each heaving of thy wingThou dost health and leisure bring,Thou dost waive disease and painAnd resume new life again.
Lately alas I knew a gentle boy,
As one she had designed for Beauty’s toy,But after manned him for her own strong-hold.On every side he open was as day,That you might see no lack of strength within,For walls and ports do only serve alwayFor a pretence to feebleness and sin.Say not that Cćsar was victorious,With toil and strife who stormed the House…
Great God, I ask for no meaner pelf
That in my action I may soar as highAs I can now discern with this clear eye.And next in value, which thy kindness lends,That I may greatly disappoint my friends,Howe’er they think or hope that it may be,They may not dream how thou’st distinguished me.That my weak hand may equal my firm faithAnd my life…
Fountain head and source of rivers,
Dew-cloth, dream drapery,
And napkin spread by fays;
Drifting meadow of the air,
Where bloom the dasied banks and violets,
And in whose fenny labyrinth
The bittern booms and heron wades;
Spirit of the lake and seas and rivers,
Bear only purfumes and the scent
Of healing herbs to just men’s fields!
Similar Posts
Great God, I ask for no meaner pelf
That in my action I may soar as highAs I can now discern with this clear eye.And next in value, which thy kindness lends,That I may greatly disappoint my friends,Howe’er they think or hope that it may be,They may not dream how thou’st distinguished me.That my weak hand may equal my firm faithAnd my life…
Within the circuit of this plodding life
Untarnished fair as is the violetOr anemone, when the spring strews themBy some meandering rivulet, which makeThe best philosophy untrue that aimsBut to console man for his grievancesI have remembered when the winter came,High in my chamber in the frosty nights,When in the still light of the cheerful moon,On every twig and rail and jutting…
Let such pure hate still underprop
Each other’s conscience,And have our sympathyMainly from thence.We’ll one another treat like gods,And all the faith we haveIn virtue and in truth, bestowOn either, and suspicion leaveTo gods below.Two solitary stars–Unmeasured systems farBetween us roll;But by our conscious light we areDetermined to one pole.What need confound the sphere?–Love can afford to wait;For it no hour’s…
Tall Ambrosia
Among the signs of autumn I perceiveThe Roman wormwood (called by learned menAmbrosia elatior, food for gods,—For to impartial science the humblest weedIs as immortal once as the proudest flower—)Sprinkles its yellow dust over my shoesAs I cross the now neglected garden.—We trample under foot the food of godsAnd spill their nectar in each dropp…
There is health in thy gray wing,
Say, thou modern-winged antique,Was thy mistress ever sick?In each heaving of thy wingThou dost health and leisure bring,Thou dost waive disease and painAnd resume new life again.
On fields o’er which the reaper’s hand has pass’d
My thoughts like stubble floating in the windAnd of such fineness as October airs,There after harvest could I glean my lifeA richer harvest reaping without toil,And weaving gorgeous fancies at my willIn subtler webs than finest summer haze.