I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. Chorus hymeneal Or triumphal chaunt Match'd with thine, would be all But an empty vaunt — A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain ! What fields, or waves, or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be : Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee: Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. Waking or asleep Thou of death must deem Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream, Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? We look before and after And pine for what is not: With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. Yet if we could scorn Hate, and pride, and fear; Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. Better than all measures Of delightful sound, That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, The world should listen then, as I am listening now! P. B. Shelley CCXLII B THE GREEN LINNET ENEATH these fruit-tree boughs that shed With brightest sunshine round me spread In this sequester'd nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard-seat! And flowers and birds once more to greet, My last year's friends together. One have I mark'd, the happiest guest In all this covert of the blest : Hail to Thee, far above the rest While birds, and butterflies, and flowers A Life, a Presence like the air, Amid yon tuft of hazel-trees There, where the flutter of his wings My dazzled sight he oft deceives— He mock'd and treated with disdain W. Wordsworth CCXLIII TO THE CUCKOO BLITHE new-comer! I have heard, O Cuckoo ! shall I call thee bird, While I am lying on the grass From hill to hill it seems to pass, Though babbling only to the vale Of sunshine and of flowers, Thou bringest unto me a tale Of visionary hours. Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! Even yet thou art to me No bird, but an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery; The same whom in my school-boy days I listen'd to; that Cry Which made me look a thousand ways To seek thee did I often rove Neglect me! no, I suffer'd long My Son, if thou be humbled, poor, Alas! the fowls of heaven have wings Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan Or hast been summon'd to the deep I look for ghosts: but none will force |