All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call;

It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all;
The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll,
And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul.

For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear;

I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here;
With all my strength I pray'd for both, and so I felt resign'd,
And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind.

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;
For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind,
And up the valley came again the music on the wind.

But you were sleeping; and I said, 'It's not for them: it's mine.'
And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign.
And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars,
Then seem'd to go right up to Heaven and die among the stars.

So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know
The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go.
And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day.
But, Effie, you must comfort her when I am past away.

And say to Robin a kin 1 word, and tell him not to fret ;
There's many a worthier than I, would make him happy yet.
If I had lived-I cannot tell-I might have been his wife ;
But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life.

O look! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow;
He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know.
And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine-
Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine.

O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done
The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun—

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 there to wait a little while till you and Effie come-
To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast-
And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.

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.

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;

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.

Stood sunset-flush'd: and, dew'd with Of child, and wife, and slave; but ever

Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the

Was seen far inland, and the yellow And all at once they sang, 'Our island

Border'd with palm, and many a winding Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam.'

Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass;
Music that gentlier on the spirit lies,
Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd
eyes;

With winds upon the branch, and there
Grows green and bread, and takes no

care,

Sun-steep'd at noon, and in the moon
Nightly dew-fed; and turning yellow
Falls, and floats adown the air.
Lo! sweeten'd with the summer light,
The full-juiced apple, waxing over-
mellow,

Drops in a silent autumn night.
All its allotted length of days,
The flower ripens in its place,

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,
And in the stream the long-leaved flowers

weep,

And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.

II.

Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness,
And utterly consumed with sharp distress,
While all things else have rest from
weariness?

toil,

Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil.

IV.

Hateful is the dark-blue sky,
Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea.
Death is the end of life; ah, why
Should life all labour be?
Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast,
And in a little while our lips are dumb.
Let us alone. What is it that will last ?
All things are taken from us, and become
Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past.

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
And make perpetual moan,
In ever climbing up the climbing wave?
Still from one sorrow to another thrown: All things have rest, and ripen toward

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;
Eating the Lotos day by day,

To watch the crisping ripples on the beach,
And tender curving lines of creamy spray;
To lend our hearts and spirits wholly
To the influence of mild-minded melan-
choly;

VII.

But, propt on beds of amaranth and

moly,

How sweet (while warm airs lull us,
blowing lowly)

With half-dropt eyelid still,
Beneath a heaven dark and holy,
To watch the long bright river drawing
slowly

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
Have eat our substance, and the minstrel
sings

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?
Let what is broken so remain.
The Gods are hard to reconcile :
'Tis hard to settle order once again.
There is confusion worse than death
Trouble on trouble, pain on pain,
Long labour unto aged breath,

Sore task to hearts worn out by many wars

motion we,

Roll'd to starboard, roll'd to larboard,
when the surge was seething free,
Where the wallowing monster spouted
his foam-fountains 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

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

Round their golden houses, girdled with Dan Chaucer, the first warbler, whose

I saw, wherever light illumineth, Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with Beauty and anguish walking hand in hand