 | Poems Real and Ideal |  |
72
SONNET XXVIII. ALONE.
Though England quite condemn me, yet am I
Very content in lonely calm to stand
Waiting,—my ceaseless lyre within my hand
And over me the uncondemning sky.
O England, England, England,—if we try
Our strange high visions unto thee to show,
'Tis ever the same answer—ever “No”!—
So one by one the baffled poets die.
Very content in lonely calm to stand
Waiting,—my ceaseless lyre within my hand
And over me the uncondemning sky.
O England, England, England,—if we try
Our strange high visions unto thee to show,
'Tis ever the same answer—ever “No”!—
So one by one the baffled poets die.
Yet hold I fast my vision. Though not one
Were with me, I should hold it all the more.—
The spirit of Beauty at the heart of things
Is my one God, and till my life is done
I'll follow her moonlit feet along the shore
And mark the far faint glimmer of moonlit wings.
Were with me, I should hold it all the more.—
The spirit of Beauty at the heart of things
Is my one God, and till my life is done
I'll follow her moonlit feet along the shore
And mark the far faint glimmer of moonlit wings.
| Poems Real and Ideal | |