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Blue isles and snowy mountains wear
The purple noon's transparent might,
The breath of the moist earth is light, Around its unexpanded buds;
Like many a voice of one delight, The winds, the birds, the ocean floods, The City's voice itself is soft like Solitude's.
I see the Deep's untrampled floor
With green and purple seaweeds strown;
Is flashing round me, and a tone
Alas! I have nor hope nor health,
Nor peace within nor calm around, Nor that content surpassing wealth
The sage in meditation found,
And walked with inward glory crowned Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure.
Others I see whom these surroundSmiling they live, and call life pleasure ;To me that cup has been dealt in another
Even as the winds and waters are ;
And weep away the life of care
Which I have borne and yet must bear, Till death like sleep might steal on me,
And I might feel in the warm air My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.
Some might lament that I were cold,
As I, when this sweet day is gone, Which my lost heart, too soon grown old,
Insults with this untimely moan;
They might lament—for I am one Whom men love not, and yet regret,
Unlike this day, which, when the sun Shall on its stainless glory set, Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory
O Mary dear, that you were here
O Mary dear, that you were here;
SONG, ON A FADED VIOLET.
1. THE odour from the flower is gone
Which like thy kisses breathed on me; The colour from the flower is flown
Which glowed of thee and only thee !
A shrivelled, lifeless, vacant form,
It lies on my abandoned breast,
With cold and silent rest.
I sigh,-it breathes no more on me;
Is such as mine should be.
THE WOODMAN AND THE
A WOODMAN whose rough heart was out of tune (I think such hearts yet never came to good) Hated to hear, under the stars or moon,
One nightingale in an interfluous wood
Or as the moonlight fills the open sky Struggling with darkness—as a tuberose Peoples some Indian dell with scents which lie
Like clouds above the flower from which they
rose, The singing of that happy nightingale In this sweet forest, from the golden close
Of evening, till the star of dawn may fail,
Heard her within their slumbers, the abyss
Of the circumfluous waters,—every sphere
And every beast stretched in its rugged cave, And every bird lulled on its mossy bough, And every silver moth fresh from the grave,
Which is its cradle-ever from below Aspiring like one who loves too fair, too far, To be consumed within the purest glow
Of one serene and unapproached star,
1 Compare Epipsychidion, line 224, vol. iii, page 362:
As if it were a lamp of earthly flame.-ED.
Itself how low, how high beyond all height The heaven where it would perish !—and every
And so this man returned with axe and saw 40
They spread themselves into the loveliness