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So sleeping, so aroused from sleep
Through sunny decades new and strange, Or gay quinquenniads, would we reap
The flower and quintessence of change. Ah, yet would I—and would I might !
So much your eyes my fancy take
awake! For, am I right or am I
wrong, To choose your own you did not care; You'd have my moral from the song,
And I will take my pleasure there : And, am I right or am I wrong,
My fancy, ranging through and through, To search a meaning for the song,
Perforce will still revert to you; Nor finds a closer truth than this
All-graceful head, so richly curled, And evermore a costly kiss,
The prelude to some brighter world.
For since the time when Adam first
Embraced his Eve in happy hour, And every bird of Eden burst
In carol, every bud to flower, What eyes, like thine, have wakened hopes ?
What lips, like thine, so sweetly joined ? Where on the double rosebud droops
The fulness of the pensive mind; Which all too dearly self-involved,
Yet sleeps a dreamless sleep to me; A sleep by kisses undissolved,
That lets thee neither hear nor see : But break it. In the name of wife,
And in the rights that name may give, Are clasped the moral of thy life,
And that for which I care to live.
And, if you find a meaning there,
“What wonder, if he thinks me fair ? " What wonder I was all unwise, To shape the
your delight, Like long-tailed birds of Paradise,
That float through Heaven, and cannot light? Or old-world trains, upheld at court
By Cupid-boys of blooming hueBut take it earnest wed with sport,
And either sacred unto you.
My father left a park to me,
But it is wild and barren,
And waster than a warren :
say the neighbors when they call, It is not bad but good land, And in it is the
within the woodland. O had I lived when song was great
In days of old Amphion,
Nor cared for seed or scion !
And legs of trees were limber,
And fiddled in the timber!
'Tis said he had a tuneful tongue,
Such happy intonation,
Wherever he sat down and sung
He left a sinall plantation ; Wherever in a lonely grove
He set up his forlorn pipes,
And flounder into hornpipes.
And, as tradition teaches,
Coquetting with young beeches ; And briony-vine and ivy-wreath
Ran forward to his rhyming, And from the valleys underneath
Came little copses climbing.
The linden broke her ranks and rent
The woodbine wreaths that bind her, And down the middle buzz! she went
With all her bees behind her:
With cypress promenaded,
By rivers gallopaded.
Came yews, a dismal coterie;
Poussetting with a sloe-tree :
The vine streamed out to follow,
From many a cloudy hollow.
When, ere his song was ended,
The country-side descended;
Looked down, half-pleased, half-frightened, As dashed about the drunken leaves
The random sunshine lightened !
O, nature first was fresh to men,
And wanton without measure ; So youthful and so flexile then,
You moved her at your pleasure. Twang out, my fiddle ! shake the twigs !
And make her dance attendance: Blow, flute, and stir the stiff-set sprigs,
And scirrhous roots and tendons.
'Tis vain! in such a brassy age
I could not move a thistle;
Scarce answer to my whistle;
With strumming and with scraping,
The passive oxen gaping.
Like sleepy counsel pleading:
The modern Muses reading.
And Works on Gardening through there, And Methods of transplanting trees,
To look as if they grew there.
O'er books of travelled seamen,
From England to Van Diemen.
And alleys, faded places,
But these, though fed with careful dirt,
Are neither green nor sappy ;. Half-conscious of the garden-squirt,
The spindlings look unhappy. Better to me the meanest weed
That blows upon its mountain, The vilest herb that runs to seed
Beside its native fountain.
And I must work through months of toil,
And years of cultivation, Upon my proper patch of soil,
To grow my own plantation. I'll take the showers as they fall,
I will not vex my bosom: Enough, if at the end of all
A little garden blossom.
ST. AGNES' EVE.
Are sparkling to the moon :
May my soul follow soon!
Slant down the snowy sward,
That lead me to my Lord:
As are the frosty skies,
That in my bosom lies.
As these white robes are soiled and dark,
To yonder shining ground;