I am the daughter of earth and water, And the nursling of the sky; I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; I change, but I cannot die. For after the rain, when with never a stain, The pavilion of heaven is bare, And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams, Build up the blue dome of air, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, And out of the caverns of rain, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I arise and unbuild it again. SHELLEY. A DROP OF DEW. SEE how the orient dew, (Yet careless of its mansion new, For the clear region where 'twas born,) Round in itself encloses And, in its little globe's extent, Frames, as it can, its native element. How it the purple flower does slight, Scarce touching where it lies, Restless it rolls, and insecure, Till the warm sun pities its pain, And to the skies exhales it back again. So the soul, that drop, that ray, Of the clear fountain of eternal day, Could it within the human flower be seen, Remembering still its former height, Shuns the sweet leaves, and blossoms green, And, recollecting its own light, Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, express The greater heaven in a heaven less. White and entire, although congealed and chill; Congealed on earth; but does, dissolving, run Into the glories of the almighty sun. MARVELL. And when I was a child, I laid Each movement of the swaying lamp With every shock she feels. Now swinging slow and slanting low, And yet I know, while to and fro O hand of God! O lamp of peace! Amid the roar of smiting seas, The ship's convulsive roll, I own with love and tender awe A heavenly trust my spirit calms, Happy as if to-night Under the cottage roof again I heard the soothing summer rain. |