 | The Poetry of Real Life |  |
ON A LOVELY REFLECTION IN WATER.
Hast thou, when, on their downy wings, the windsHave lulled themselves to rest, like sea-birds, seen
A landscape pictured in a lake's calm sheen,
Where old, familiar objects the eye finds,
But glorified, as 't were: freed from those blinds
Of earthliness, through which, as through a screen
Of mist, we darkly saw? yet there, I ween,
The soul may be, though sense the body binds,
Translated also! yet the most real life
Is that of soul, for, where our souls are, what
Else want we? thus it is and it is not!
Like a bright bubble, which to sight doth live,
But not to touch—then touch it not—but give
It scope—'tis real, till thou hast this forgot!
| The Poetry of Real Life | |