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Glory, glory, glory,
Never name in story
Bind, bind every brow
Hide the blood-stains now
ODE TO HEAVEN.
Which art now, and which wert then!
Of the eternal where and when,
Glorious shapes have life in thee :—
Thy deep chasms and wildernesses;
And swift stars with flashing tresses; And icy moons most cold and bright; And mighty suns beyond the night, Atoms of intensest light.
Even thy name is as a god,
f that Power which is the glass
Wherein man his nature sees.
Worship thee with bended knees.
Lighted up by stalactites;
Where a world of new delights
Who its brief expanse inherit?
With the instinct of that Spirit
What is heaven? A globe of dew,
Filling in the morning new
Some eyed flower whose young leaves waken
On an unimagined world:—
Orbits measureless, are furled
ODE TO THE WEST WIND.
O Wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave, until Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow
Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill
Wild Spirit which art moving everywhere;
11. Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion,
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed, Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean,
Angels of rain and lightning! there are spread
Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge
Of the horizon to the zenith's height,
Of the dying year, to which this closing night
Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere
Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: Oh hear!
iII. Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams,
Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay,
All overgrown with azure moss, and flowers
So sweet the sense faints picturing them! Thou For whose path the Atlantic's level powers
Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear The sapless foliage of the ocean know
Thy voice, and suddenly grow grey with fear,
If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
The impulse of thy strength, only less free
The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,
As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed
Make mc thy lyre, even as the forest is:
What if my leaves arc falling like its own? The tumult of thy mighty harmonies
Will take from both a deep autumnal tone, Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!
Drive my dead thoughts over the universe,
Like withered leaves, to quicken a new birth; And, by the incantation of this verse,
Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unawakcned earth
The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
Poets' food is love and fame.
Poets could but find the same
Would they ever change their hue
As the light chameleons do,
Twenty times a-day 1
Poets are on this cold earth
As chameleons might be
In a cave beneath the sea.
Where love is not, poets do.
Fame is love disguised: if few
That poets range.
A poet's free and heavenly mind.
Any food but beatas and wind,
As their brother lizards are.
Children of a sunnier star,
THE INDIAN SERENADE.
I ARIse from dreams of thee