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Through many a woven acanthus-wreath divine! Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine, Only to hear were sweet, stretched out beneath the pine.
The Lotos blooms below the barren peak:
Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotosdust is blown.
We have had enough of action, and of motion we, Rolled to starboard, rolled to larboard, when the surge was seething free,
Where the wallowing monster spouted his foamfountains in the sea.
Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind,
In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclined
For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurled
Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curled
Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world;
Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted
Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and fiery sands,
Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and praying hands.
But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful song
Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of
【 a tale of little meaning, though the words are
Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil,
Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil,
Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and
Till they perish and they suffer-some, 'tis whispered-down in hell
Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys
Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel. Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the
Than labor in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar;
O rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander
A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN.
I READ, before my eyelids dropt their shade,
Dan Chaucer, the first warbler, whose sweet breath Preluded those melodious bursts, that fill
The spacious times of great Elizabeth
With sounds that echo still.
And, for a while, the knowledge of his art
Held me above the subject, as strong gales
Hold swollen clouds from raining, though my heart, Brimful of those wild tales,
Charged both mine eyes with tears. In every land
Those far-renowned brides of ancient song Peopled the hollow dark, like burning stars, And I heard sounds of insult, shame, and wrong, And trumpets blown for wars;
And clattering flints battered with clanging hoofs:
Corpses across the threshold; heroes tall
And high shrine-doors burst through with heated blasts
That run before the fluttering tongues of fire; White surf wind-scattered over sails and masts, And ever climbing higher;
Squadrons and squares of men in brazen plates,
So shape chased shape as swift as, when to land
I started once, or seemed to start, in pain,
Resolved on noble things, and strove to speak, As when a great thought strikes along the brain, And flushes all the cheek.
And once my arm was lifted to hew down
All those sharp fancies, by down-lapsing thought Streamed onward, lost their edges, and did creep Rolled on each other, rounded, smoothed, and brought
Into the gulfs of sleep.
At last methought that I had wandered far
In an old wood: fresh-washed in coolest dew, The maiden splendors of the morning star Shook in the steadfast blue.
Enormous elm-tree boles did stoop and lean
Upon the dusky brushwood underneath
Their broad curved branches, fledged with clearest
New from its silken sheath.
The dim red morn had died, her journey done,
There was no motion in the dumb dead air,
As that wide forest. Growths of jasmine turned
I knew the flowers, I knew the leaves, I knew
Leading from lawn to lawn.
The smell of violets, hidden in the green,
And from within me a clear under-tone
Thrilled through mine ears in that unblissful clime,
"Pass freely through! the wood is all thine own, Until the end of time."