From my wings are shaken the dews that waken When rock'd to rest on their mother's breast, I sift the snow on the mountains below, While I sleep in the arms of the blast. In a cavern under is fetter'd the thunder, Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, Lured by the love of the genii that move Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes, Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, As on the jag of a mountain crag, Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An eagle alit one moment may sit In the light of its golden wings. And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, Its ardours of rest and of love, That orbed maiden with white fire laden, Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, Like a swarm of golden bees, When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, The volcanos are dim, and the stars reel and swim, Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof, The mountains its columns be. The triumphal arch through which I march When the powers of the air are chain'd to my chair, The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove, While the moist earth was laughing below. I am the daughter of earth and water, And the nursling of the sky; I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; I change, but I cannot die. For after the rain when with never a stain, The pavilion of heaven is bare, And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams, Build up the blue dome of air, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, And out of the caverns of rain, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I arise and unbuild it again. SONG. Rarely, rarely, comest thou, Wherefore hast thou left me now Many a day and night? Many a weary night and day How shall ever one like me All but those who need thee not. As a lizard with the shade Of a trembling leaf, Thou with sorrow art dismay'd; Even the sighs of grief Reproach thee, that thou art not near, And reproach thou wilt not hear. Let me set my mournful ditty To a merry measure, Thou wilt come for pleasure, Pity then will cut away Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay. I love all that thou lovest, Spirit of Delight! The fresh Earth in new leaves drest, Autumn evening, and the morn I love snow, and all the forms I love waves, and winds storms, Which is Nature's and may be I love tranquil solitude, And such society As is quiet, wise and good; Between thee and me What difference? but thou dost possess The things I seek, not love them less. I love Love though he has wings, And like light can flee, But above all other things, Spirit, I love thee Thou art love and life! O come, Make once more my heart thy home. Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness, A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Though winning near the goal - yet, do not grieve; Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed For ever piping songs for ever new; For ever panting, and for ever young; A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. |