No one who once the glorious sun has seen,

      And all the clouds, and felt his bosom clean

      For his great Maker’s presence, but must know

      What ’tis I mean, and feel his being glow:

      Therefore no insult will I give his spirit,

      By telling what he sees from native merit.

      O Poesy! for thee I hold my pen

      That am not yet a glorious denizen

      Of thy wide heaven – Should I rather kneel

      Upon some mountain-top until I feel

      A glowing splendour round about me hung,

      And echo back the voice of thine own tongue?

      O Poesy! for thee I grasp my pen

      That am not yet a glorious denizen

      Of thy wide heaven; yet, to my ardent prayer,

      Yield from thy sanctuary some clear air,

      Smoothed for intoxication by the breath

      Of flowering bays, that I may die a death

      Of luxury, and my young spirit follow

      The morning sunbeams to the great Apollo

      Like a fresh sacrifice; or, if I can bear

      The o’erwhelming sweets, ‘twill bring to me the fair

      Visions of all places: a bowery nook

      Will be elysium – an eternal book

      Whence I may copy many a lovely saying

      About the leaves, and flowers – about the playing

      Of nymphs in woods, and fountains; and the shade

      Keeping a silence round a sleeping maid;

      And many a verse from so strange influence

      That we must ever wonder how, and whence

      It came. Also imaginings will hover

      Round my fireside, and haply there discover

      Vistas of solemn beauty, where I’d wander

      In happy silence, like the clear meander

      Through its lone vales; and where I found a spot

      Of awfuller shade, or an enchanted grot,

      Or a green hill o’erspread with chequered dress

      Of flowers, and fearful from its loveliness,

      Write on my tablets all that was permitted,

      All that was for our human senses fitted.

      Then the events of this wide world I’d seize

      Like a strong giant, and my spirit teaze

      Till at its shoulders it should proudly see

      Wings to find out an immortality.

      Stop and consider! life is but a day;

      A fragile dewdrop on its perilous way

      From a tree’s summit; a poor Indian’s sleep

      While his boat hastens to the monstrous steep

      Of Montmorenci. Why so sad a moan?

      Life is the rose’s hope while yet unblown;

      The reading of an ever-changing tale;

      The light uplifting of a maiden’s veil;

      A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air;

      A laughing schoolboy, without grief or care,

      Riding the springy branches of an elm.

      O for ten years, that I may overwhelm

      Myself in poesy; so I may do the deed

      That my own soul has to itself decreed.

      Then will I pass the countries that I see

      In long perspective, and continually

      Taste their pure fountains. First the realm I’ll pass

      Of Flora, and old Pan: sleep in the grass,

      Feed upon apples red, and strawberries,

      And choose each pleasure that my fancy sees;

      Catch the white-handed nymphs in shady places,

      To woo sweet kisses from averted faces, —

      Play with their fingers, touch their shoulders white

      Into a pretty shrinking with a bite

      As hard as lips can make it: till agreed,

      A lovely tale of human life we’ll read.

      And one will teach a tame dove how it best

      May fan the cool air gently o’er my rest;

      Another, bending o’er her nimble tread,

      Will set a green robe floating round her head,

      And still will dance with ever varied case,

      Smiling upon the flowers and the trees:

      Another will entice me on, and on

      Through almond blossoms and rich cinnamon;

      Till in the bosom of a leafy world

      We rest in silence, like two gems upcurl’d

      In the recesses of a pearly shell.

      And can I ever bid these joys farewell?

      Yes, I must pass them for a nobler life,

      Where I may find the agonies, the strife

      Of human hearts: for lo! I see afar,

      O’er sailing the blue cragginess, a car

      And steeds with streamy manes – the charioteer

      Looks out upon the winds with glorious fear:

      And now the numerous tramplings quiver lightly

      Along a huge cloud’s ridge; and now with sprightly

      Wheel downward come they into fresher skies,

      Tipt round with silver from the sun’s bright eyes.

      Still downward with capacious whirl they glide,

      And now I see them on a green-hill’s side

      In breezy rest among the nodding stalks.

      The charioteer with wond’rous gesture talks

      To the trees and mountains; and there soon appear

      Shapes