 | My Sonnets |  |
SONG.
What pleasure can match the delight that we find
When fairy-like fancies are flitting to light,
And thoughts, streaming up from the depths of the mind,
Put souls into words and unveil to our sight?
When fairy-like fancies are flitting to light,
And thoughts, streaming up from the depths of the mind,
Put souls into words and unveil to our sight?
62
Then, drunk with sweet frenzy, how fast from the eye,
Thought-lit, vanish all things we late saw below,
Concealed by the forms that are wandering by,—
The shapes that, at fancy's low call, come and go!
Thought-lit, vanish all things we late saw below,
Concealed by the forms that are wandering by,—
The shapes that, at fancy's low call, come and go!
Will ye match me, with this, the delights of the earth?
The joys that the juice of the grape can bestow?
Can the blood of the vine to a rapture give birth,
Like thought's inspiration or fancy's rich glow?
The joys that the juice of the grape can bestow?
Can the blood of the vine to a rapture give birth,
Like thought's inspiration or fancy's rich glow?
'Tis rapture to roam with a daughter of earth
When the night-stars burn dim by the eyes that we love,
Yet are ages of passion that one moment worth,
When the poet goes rapt to the heavens above?
When the night-stars burn dim by the eyes that we love,
Yet are ages of passion that one moment worth,
When the poet goes rapt to the heavens above?
No—let care haunt my way—let distress be my lot,
So poesy with me disdain not to dwell,—
What matter? all else shall, with it, be forgot,—
If the god stir within me, I care not,—'tis well.
So poesy with me disdain not to dwell,—
What matter? all else shall, with it, be forgot,—
If the god stir within me, I care not,—'tis well.
November 11th, 1842.
| My Sonnets | |