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There is sweet music here that softer falls
Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies.
Here are cool mosses deep,
And through the moss the ivies creep,
And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in
Why are we weighed upon with heaviness,
Still from one sorrow to another thrown:
And cease from wanderings,
Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm;
Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of
Lo! in the middle of the wood,
The folded leaf is wooed from out the bud
Sun-steeped at noon, and in the moon
Hateful is the dark-blue sky,
Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast,
Give us long rest or death, dark death or dreamful ease!
How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream, With half-shut eyes ever to seem
Falling asleep in a half-dream!
To dream and dream, like yonder amber light,
To watch the crisping ripples on the beach,
To lend our hearts and spirits wholly
Heaped over with a mound of grass,
Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass!
Dear is the memory of our wedded lives,
And their warm tears: but all hath suffered change;
Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings
Sore task to hearts worn out with many wars,
But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly,
Beneath a heaven dark and holy,
To watch the long bright river drawing slowly
His waters from the purple hill
To hear the dewy echoes calling
From cave to cave through the thick-twined vine— To watch the emerald-colored water falling
Through many a woven acanthus-wreath divine! Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine, Only to hear were sweet, stretched out beneath the pine.
The Lotos blooms below the barren peak:
We have had enough of action, and of motion we, Rolled to starboard, rolled to larboard, when the surge was seething free,
Where the wallowing monster spouted his foamfountains in the sea.
Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind,
In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclined On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind.
For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurled
Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curled
Round their golden houses, girdled with 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
Like a tale of little meaning, though the words are
Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil,
Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil,
Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil;
Till they perish and they suffer-some, 'tis whispered-down in hell
Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell,
Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel. Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore
Than labor in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar;
O rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander
A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN.
I READ, before my eyelids dropt their shade,
Dan Chaucer, the first warbler, whose sweet breath
And, for a while, the knowledge of his art
Brimful of those wild tales,