 | Sonnets |  |
113
VIII.
I love the rolling moor, which is the hive
Of wingèd things whereof the day is sweet
And innocent, however it be fleet;
I love to breathe and know myself alive
With careless creatures that not need to strive;
To drink new joy at every stream I meet,
Earth's flowery laughters breaking at my feet,
And feel the lustier blood within me thrive.
Of wingèd things whereof the day is sweet
And innocent, however it be fleet;
I love to breathe and know myself alive
With careless creatures that not need to strive;
To drink new joy at every stream I meet,
Earth's flowery laughters breaking at my feet,
And feel the lustier blood within me thrive.
Yes, it is good, though we may not forget,
To rise above the fever and the fret,
And, wistful of the end, to know no sorrow,
That thou must lapse, sweet Cluny, in the Dee,
Which in its turn must sink into the Sea,—
And I must lose my careless life to-morrow!
To rise above the fever and the fret,
And, wistful of the end, to know no sorrow,
That thou must lapse, sweet Cluny, in the Dee,
Which in its turn must sink into the Sea,—
And I must lose my careless life to-morrow!
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