Were not the crocusses that grew
Under that ilex tree,

As beautiful in scent and hue
As ever fed the bee?

We stood beside the pools that lie
Under the forest bough,
And each seemed like a sky

Gulphed in a world below;

A purple firmament of light,
Which in the dark earth lay,

More boundless than the depth of night,
And clearer than the day—

In which the massy forests grew,
As in the upper air,

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,
A silence sleeping there.

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,
Spirit of Night!

Out of the misty eastern cave,

Where, all the long and lone daylight,
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear,
Which make thee terrible and dear,—
Swift be thy flight!

Wrap thy form in a mantle grey,
Star-inwrought!

Blind with thine hair the eyes of day,

Kiss her until she be wearied out,

Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land,
Touching all with thine opiate wand-
Come, long sought!

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,
Murmured like a noon-tide bee,

Shall I nestle near thy side?
Wouldst thou me ?-And I replied,
No, not thee!

Death will come when thou art dead,
Soon, too soon-

Sleep will come when thou art fled;
Of neither would I ask the boon
I ask of thee, beloved Night-
Swift be thine approaching flight,
Come soon, soon!

EVENING.

PONTE A MARE, PISA.

THE sun is set; the swallows are asleep;
The bats are flitting fast in the grey air;
The slow soft toads out of damp corners creep,
And evening's breath, wandering here and there
Over the quivering surface of the stream,
Wakes not one ripple from its silent dream,

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
By darkest barriers of enormous cloud,
Like mountain over mountain huddled-but
Growing and moving upwards in a crowd,
And over it a space of watery blue,

Which the keen evening star is shining through.