Were not the crocusses that grew As beautiful in scent and hue We stood beside the pools that lie Gulphed in a world below; A purple firmament of light, More boundless than the depth of night, In which the massy forests grew, More perfect both in shape and hue Than any waving there. Like one beloved, the scene had lent To the dark water's breast Its every leaf and lineament With that clear truth expressed. There lay far glades and neighbouring lawn, And through the dark green crowd The white sun twinkling like the dawn Under a speckled cloud. Sweet views, which in our world above Can never well be seen, Were imaged by the water's love Of that fair forest green. And all was interfused beneath Within an Elysium air, An atmosphere without a breath, Until a wandering wind crept by, Like an unwelcome thought, Which from my mind's too faithful Blots thy bright image out. eye For thou art good and dear and kind, The forest ever green, But less of peace in S's mind, Than calm in waters seen. February 2, 1822. TO NIGHT. Swiftly walk over the western wave, Out of the misty eastern cave, Where, all the long and lone daylight, Wrap thy form in a mantle grey, Blind with thine hair the eyes of day, Kiss her until she be wearied out, Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land, When I arose and saw the dawn, I sighed for thee; When light rode high, and the dew was gone, And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, And the weary Day turned to his rest, Lingering like an unloved guest, I sighed for thee. Thy brother Death came, and cried, Wouldst thou me? Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, Shall I nestle near thy side? Death will come when thou art dead, Sleep will come when thou art fled; EVENING. PONTE A MARE, PISA. THE sun is set; the swallows are asleep; There is no dew on the dry grass to-night, Nor damp within the shadow of the trees; The wind is intermitting, dry, and light; And in the inconstant motion of the breeze The dust and straws are driven up and down, And whirled about the pavement of the town. Within the surface of the fleeting river The wrinkled image of the city lay, Immoveably unquiet, and for ever It trembles, but it never fades away; Go to the [ 1 You, being changed, will find it then as now. The chasm in which the sun has sunk is shut Which the keen evening star is shining through. |