« הקודםהמשך »
Or when little airs arise, How the merry bluebell rings
To the mosses underneath ?
Hast thou look'd upon the breath Of the lilies at sunrise ? Wherefore that faint smile of thine, Shadowy, dreaming Adeline?
Some honey-converse feeds thy mind,
Some spirit of a crimson rose
His curtains, wasting odorous sighs
And those dew-lit eyes of thine,
Lovest thou the doleful wind
When thou gazest at the skies?
Doth the low-tongued Orient
Dripping with Sabæan spice
Breathing Light against thy face,
Round thy neck in subtle ring
Make a carcanet of
And ye talk together still,
Letters cowslips on the hill ?
With a half-glance upon the sky
Of this most intricate Universe
Teach me the nothingness of things.”
He spake of beauty : that the dull
And said the earth was beautiful.
He spake of virtue : not the gods
Most delicately hour by hour
With lips depress'd as he were meek, Himself unto himself he sold :
Upon himself himself did feed :
And other than his form of creed,
With chisell’d features clear and sleek. THE POET.
The poet in a golden clime was born,
With golden stars above ; Dower'd with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn,
The love of love.
He saw thro’ life and death, thro' good and ill,
He saw thro' his own soul. The marvel of the everlasting will,
An open scroll,
Before him lay: with echoing feet he threaded
The secret'st walks of fame : The viewless arrows of his thoughts were headed
And wing'd with flame,