All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call; It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all; For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear; I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here; I thought that it was fancy, and I listen'd in my bed, And then did something speak to me--I know not what was said; But you were sleeping; and I said, 'It's not for them: it's mine.' So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know And say to Robin a kin 1 word, and tell him not to fret ; O look! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow; O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done For ever and for ever with those just souls and true And what is life, that we should moan? why make we such ado? For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home- And like a downward smoke, the slender And taste, to him the gushing of the Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall Far far away did seem to mourn and did seem. rave On alien shores; and if his fellow spake, A land of streams! some, like a down. His voice was thin, as voices from the grave; ward smoke, Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did And deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all awake, And music in his ears his beating heart did make. go; And some thro' wavering lights and sha Three silent pinnacles of aged snow, They sat them down upon the yellow sand, Between the sun and moon upon the shore ; And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland, Stood sunset-flush'd: and, dew'd with Of child, and wife, and slave; but ever showery drops, more Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the woven copse. The charmed sunset linger'd low adown In the red West: thro' mountain clefts the dale oar, Weary the wandering fields of barren foam. Then some one said, 'We will return no more ;' Was seen far inland, and the yellow And all at once they sang, 'Our island down home Border'd with palm, and many a winding Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam.' vale Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass; With winds upon the branch, and there care, Sun-steep'd at noon, and in the moon Drops in a silent autumn night. Music that brings sweet sleep down from Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no the blissful skies. Here are cool mosses deep, And thro' the moss the ivies creep, weep, And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep. II. Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness, toil, Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil. IV. Hateful is the dark-blue sky, All things have rest: why should we toil Let us alone. What pleasure can we We only toil, who are the first of things, To war with evil? Is there any peace Nor ever fold our wings, And cease from wanderings, the grave In silence; ripen, fall and cease: Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy Give us long rest or death, dark death, or balm ; Nor harken what the inner spirit sings, 'There is no joy but calm!' dreamful ease. V. Why should we only toil, the roof and How sweet it were, hearing the down To hear each other's whisper'd speech; To watch the crisping ripples on the beach, VII. But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly, How sweet (while warm airs lull us, With half-dropt eyelid still, To muse and brood and live again in His waters from the purple hill memory, With those old faces of our infancy Heap'd over with a mound of grass, To hear the dewy echoes calling From cave to cave thro' the thick-twined vine Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an To watch the emerald-colour'd water urn of brass ! falling Thro' many a wov'n acanthus-wreath divine ! Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine, Only to hear were sweet, stretch'd out beneath the pine. VIII. Our sons inherit us: our looks are The Lotos blooms below the barren And we should come like ghosts to The Lotos blows by every winding creek : All day the wind breathes low with trouble joy. Or else the island princes over-bold Before them of the ten years' war in Troy, mellower tone : Thro' every hollow cave and alley lone Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos-dust is blown. And our great deeds, as half-forgotten We have had enough of action, and of things. Is there confusion in the little isle? Sore task to hearts worn out by many wars motion we, Roll'd to starboard, roll'd to larboard, In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie And eyes grown dim with gazing on the On the hills like Gods together, careless pilot-stars. of mankind. For they lie beside their nectar, and the Sung by the morning star of song, who bolts are hurl'd Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curl'd made His music heard below; Round their golden houses, girdled with Dan Chaucer, the first warbler, whose the gleaming world: Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands, Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and fiery sands, Clanging 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 that cleave the soil, sweet breath Preluded those melodious bursts that fill The spacious times of great Elizabeth With sounds that echo still. And, for a while, the knowledge of his art Held me above the subject, as strong gales Hold swollen clouds from raining, tho' my heart, Brimful of those wild tales, Charged both mine eyes with tears. In every land I saw, wherever light illumineth, Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with Beauty and anguish walking hand in hand |