« ZurückWeiter »
LOVE, THE RETRIEVER OF PAST LOSSES,
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear
time's waste: Then can I drown an eye, unused
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
And weep afresh love's long-since cancelled woe,
And moan the expense of many a vanished sight.
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er, The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan.
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee,
dear friend, All losses are restored, and sorrows
NO SPRING WITHOUT THE BELOVED.
From you have I been absent in the spring.
When proud pied April, dressed in
all his trim, Hath put a spirit of youth in every
That heavy Saturn laughed and
leaped with him. Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the
sweet smell Of different flowers in odor and in
Could make me any summer's story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them
where they grew. Nor did I wonder at the lilies white, Nor praise the deep vermilion in the
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark, That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although
his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy
lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass
Love alters not with his brief hours
and weeks But bears it out e'en to the edge of
If this be error, and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,
Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body's end?
Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss,
And let that pine to aggravate thy store:
Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;
Within be fed, without be rich no more:
So shalt thou feed on death, that
feeds on men, And, death once dead, there's no
more dying then.
Percy Bysshe Shelley.
ONE WORD IS TOO OFTEN PROFANED.
One word is too often profaned
For me to profane it.
For thee to disdain it,
For prudence to smother,
Than that from another.
I can give not what men call love,
But wilt thou accept not
And the Heavens reject not:
Of the night for the morrow, The devotion to something afar
From the sphere of our sorrow?
The fountains mingle with the river,
And the rivers with the ocean, The winds of heaven mix forever
With a sweet emotion;
All things by a law divine
Why not I with thine?
See the mountains kiss high heaven.
And the waves clasp one another; No sister flower would be forgiven
If it disdained its brother;
And the moonbeams kiss the sea; What are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?
TO A SKYLARK.
HAll. to thee, blithe spirit!
Bird thou never wert, That from heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart [art. In profuse strains of unpremeditated
Higher still and higher,
From the earth thou springest Like a cloud of fire;
The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
In the golden lightning
Of the sunken sun, O'er which clouds are brightening, Thou dost float and run; Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.
The pale purple even
Melts around thy flight; Like a star of heaven. In the broad daylight Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight.
Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere, Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear, Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there
All the earth and air
With thy voice is loud. As, when night is bare. From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.
What thou art we know not;
What is most like thee? From rainbow clouds there flow not Drops so bright to see, As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.
Like a poet hidden
In the light of thought, Singing hymns unbidden, Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:
Like a high-born maiden
In a palace-tower, Soothing her love-laden Soul in secret hour With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:
Like a glow-worm golden
In a dell of dew, Scattering unbeholden Its aerial hue Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:
Like a rose embowered
In its own green leaves, By warm winds deflowered, Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves.
Sound of vernal showers
On the twinkling grass, Rain-awakened flowers, All that ever was Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.
Teach us. sprite or bird,
What sweet thoughts are thine: I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.
Or triumphal chant, Matched with thine would be all But an empty vaunt,— A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
What objects are the fountains
Of thy happy strain? What fields, or waves, or mountains?
What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?
With thy clear keen joyance
Languor cannot be: Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee: Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
Waking or asleep,
Thou of death must deem Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream, Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?
We look before and after.
And pine for what is not: Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are t hose that tell of saddest thought.
Yet if we could scorn
Hate, and pride, and fear; If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.
Better than all measures
Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!
Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know, Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow, The world should listen then, as I am listening now.
MUSIC, WHEN SOFT VOICES DIE.
Music, when soft voices die,
Rose-leaves, when the rose is dead,
Love itself shall slumber on.
Unfathomarle Sea! whose waves
are years, Ocean of Time, whose waters of
deep woe Are brackish with the salt of human
Thou shoreless flood, which in thy
ebb and flow Claspest the limits of mortality! And sick of prey, yet howling on for
Vomitest thy wrecks on its inhospitable shore;
Treacherous in calm, and terrible in storm,
Who shall put forth on thee,
THE WORLD'S WANDERERS.
Tell me, thou star, whose wings of light
Speed thee in thy fiery flight,
Tell me, moon, thou pale and gray
Weary wind, who wanderest
Death is here, and death is there,
First our pleasures die,— and then Our hopes, and then our fears,— and when
These are dead, the debt is due,
All things that we love and cherish,
I bring fresh showers for the thirsts ing flowers, From the seas and the streams; I bear light shades for the leaves when laid In their noonday dreams. From my wings are shaken the dews that waken The sweet buds every one, When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, As she dances about the sun. I wield the flail of the lashing hail,
And whiten the green plains under, And then again I dissolve it in rain, And laugh as I pass in thunder.
I sift the snow on the mountains below.
And their great pines groan aghast; And all the night 'tis my pillow white,
While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers, Lightning, my pilot sits, In a cavern under, is fettered the thunder, It struggles and howls by fits; Over earth and ocean with gentle motion, This pilot is guiding me,
Lured by the love of the genii that move
In the depths of the purple sea; Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,
Over the lakes and the plains, Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, The spirit he loves, remains; And I, all the while, bask in heaven's blue smile, Whilst he is dissolving in rains.
The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes, And his burning plumes outspread, Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, When the morning-star shines dead.
As on the jag of a mountain crag, Which an earthquake rocks and swings,
An eagle alit one moment may sit
In the light of its golden wings. And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath,
Its ardors of rest and of love, And the crimson pall of eve may fall
From the depth of heaven above, With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest,
As still as a brooding dove.
That orbed maiden, with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the moon, Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,
By the midnight breezes strewn; And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
Which only the angels hear, May have broken the woof of my
tent's thin roof, The stars peep behind her and
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,
Like a swarm of golden bees, When I widen the rent in my windbuilt tent,
Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, Are each paved with the moon and these.
I bind the sun's throne with a burn-
From cape to cape, with a bridge-
The mountains its columns be. The triumphal arch through which I march.
With hurricane, fire, and snow, When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, Is the million-colored bow; The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove,
While the moist earth was laughing below.
I am the daughter of earth and water,
And the nursling of the sky: I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; I change, but I cannot die. For after the rain, when with never a stain.
The pavilion of heaven is bare, And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams. Build up the blue dome of air, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,
And out of the caverns of rain, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I arise and unbuild it again.
FROM "THE SENSITIVE-PLANT."
A SENsiTiVE-plant in a garden grew, And the young winds fed it with silver dew,
And it opened its fan-like leaves to the light.
And closed them beneath the kisses of night.