"But thou," said I, "hast missed thy mark, Who sought'st to wreck my mortal ark, By making all the horizon dark. 66 Why not set forth, if I should do This rashness, that which might ensue With this old soul in organs new? "Whatever crazy sorrow saith, No life that breathes with human breath ""Tis life, whereof our nerves are scant, O life, not death, for which we pant; More life, and fuller, that I want." I ceased, and sat as one forlorn. Then said the voice, in quiet scorn, "Behold, it is the Sabbath morn.” And I arose, and I released The casement, and the light increased Like softened airs that blowing steal, On to God's house the people prest: One walked between his wife and child, The prudent partner of his blood And in their double love secure, These three made unity so sweet, I blest them, and they wandered on: A second voice was at mine ear, A murmur, "Be of better cheer." As from some blissful neighborhood, "I see the end, and know the good." A little hint to solace woe, Like an Eolian harp that wakes Far thought with music that it makes: Such seemed the whisper at my side: "What is it thou knowest, sweet voice?" cried. "A hidden hope," the voice replied: So heavenly-toned, that in that hour To feel, although no tongue can prove, And forth into the fields I went, I wondered at the bounteous hours, I wondered, while I paced along: So variously seemed all things wrought, And wherefore rather I made choice THE DAY-DREAM. PROLOGUE. O, LADY FLORA, let me speak: As by the lattice you reclined, I went through many wayward moods To see you dreaming—and, behind, A summer crisp with shining woods. And I too dreamed, until at last Across my fancy, brooding warm, The reflex of a legend past, And loosely settled into form. And would you have the thought I had, Nor look with that too-earnest eyeThe rhymes are dazzled from their place, And ordered words asunder fly. THE SLEEPING PALACE. The varying year with blade and sheaf Clothes and reclothes the happy plains; Here rests the sap within the leaf, Here stays the blood along the veins. Soft lustre bathes the range of urns Roof-haunting martins warm their eggs Here sits the Butler with a flask Between his knees, half-drained; and there The wrinkled steward at his task, The maid-of-honor blooming fair: The page has caught her hand in his : Her lips are severed as to speak: His own are pouted to a kiss: The blush is fixed upon her cheek. Till all the hundred summers pass, The beams, that through the Oriel shine, All round a hedge upshoots, and shows And grapes with bunches red as blood; When will the hundred summers die, Come, Care and Pleasure, Hope and Pain, |