| |
| The blue deep thou wingest, |
|
| And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. |
10 |
| |
| In the golden light’ning |
|
| Of the sunken sun, |
|
| O’er which clouds are bright’ning, |
|
| Thou dost float and run, |
|
| Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. |
15 |
| |
| 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— |
20 |
| |
| 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. |
25 |
| |
| 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 overflow’d. |
30 |
| |
| 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:— |
35 |
| |
| 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: |
40 |
| |
| 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: |
45 |
| |
| Like a glow-worm golden |
|
| In a dell of dew, |
|
| Scattering unbeholden |
|
| Its aërial hue |
|
| Among the flowers and grass which screen it from the view: |
50 |
| |
| Like a rose embower’d |
|
| In its own green leaves, |
|
| By warm winds deflower’d, |
|
| Till the scent it gives |
|
| Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy-wingèd thieves. |
55 |
| |
| Sound of vernal showers |
|
| On the twinkling grass, |
|
| Rain-awaken’d flowers— |
|
| All that ever was |
|
| Joyous and clear and fresh—thy music doth surpass. |
60 |
| |
| 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. |
65 |
| |
| Chorus hymeneal, |
|
| Or triumphal chant, |
|
| Match’d with thine would be all |
|
| But an empty vaunt— |
|
| A thin wherein we feel there is some hidden want. |
70 |
| |
| 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? |
75 |
| |
| 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. |
80 |
| |
| 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? |
85 |
| |
| We look before and after, |
|
| And pine for what is not: |
|
| Our sincerest laughter |
|
| With some pain is fraught; |
|
| Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. |
90 |
| |
| 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. |
95 |
| |
| 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! |
100 |
| |
| 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. |
105 |
