 | Lyrical Poems |  |
21
ODE:
THE SPIRIT WOOED
Art
thou gone so far,
Beyond the poplar tops, beyond the sunset-bar,
Beyond the purple cloud that swells on high
In the tender fields of sky?
Beyond the poplar tops, beyond the sunset-bar,
Beyond the purple cloud that swells on high
In the tender fields of sky?
Leanest thou thy head
On sunset's golden breadth? is thy wide hair spread
To his solemn kisses? Yet grow thou not pale
As he pales and dies: nor more my eyes avail
To search his cloud-drawn bed.
On sunset's golden breadth? is thy wide hair spread
To his solemn kisses? Yet grow thou not pale
As he pales and dies: nor more my eyes avail
To search his cloud-drawn bed.
O come thou again!
Be seen on the falling slope: let thy footsteps pass
Where the river cuts with his blue scythe the grass:
Be heard in the voice that across the river comes
From the distant wood, even when the stilly rain
Is made to cease by light winds: come again,
As out of yon grey glooms,
When the cloud grows luminous and shiftily riven,
Forth comes the moon, the sweet surprise of heaven:
And her footfall light
Drops on the multiplied wave: her face is seen
In evening's pallor green:
And she waxes bright
With the death of the tinted air: yea, brighter grows
In sunset's gradual close.
To earth from heaven comes she,
So come thou to me.
22
Where the river cuts with his blue scythe the grass:
Be heard in the voice that across the river comes
From the distant wood, even when the stilly rain
Is made to cease by light winds: come again,
As out of yon grey glooms,
When the cloud grows luminous and shiftily riven,
Forth comes the moon, the sweet surprise of heaven:
And her footfall light
Drops on the multiplied wave: her face is seen
In evening's pallor green:
And she waxes bright
With the death of the tinted air: yea, brighter grows
In sunset's gradual close.
To earth from heaven comes she,
So come thou to me.
Oh, lay thou thy head
On sunset's breadth of gold, thy hair bespread
In his solemn kisses: but grow thou not pale
As he pales and dies, lest eye no more avail
To search thy cloud-drawn bed.
On sunset's breadth of gold, thy hair bespread
23
As he pales and dies, lest eye no more avail
To search thy cloud-drawn bed.
Can the weeping eye
Always feel light through mists that never dry?
Can empty arms alone for ever fill
Enough the breast? Can echo answer still,
When the voice has ceased to cry?
Always feel light through mists that never dry?
Can empty arms alone for ever fill
Enough the breast? Can echo answer still,
When the voice has ceased to cry?
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