 | English Roses |  |
450
AS THE LIGHT.
As the light from any star drops, on beauty bloom or scar;
As the colour from the rose falls, where'er it may repose;
As the music of the bird bubbles out, when it is stirr'd;
As the glory of the streams breaks, in laughter, from its dream;
All because they do and must, for the diamond or the dust;—
So my heart of many strings, out of sweet compulsion sings.
As the colour from the rose falls, where'er it may repose;
As the music of the bird bubbles out, when it is stirr'd;
As the glory of the streams breaks, in laughter, from its dream;
All because they do and must, for the diamond or the dust;—
So my heart of many strings, out of sweet compulsion sings.
Others fashion what they can, by an ordered code or plan;
Cut their yewtrees into shapes, mimicking the owls and apes;
To a calm amended form, chiseling the fire and storm;
Worshipping each door that shuts, while they plod impatient ruts;
Fastening fancy to a string, clipt in each rebellious wing;
Yet I cannot choose but fly, from a dear necessity.
Cut their yewtrees into shapes, mimicking the owls and apes;
To a calm amended form, chiseling the fire and storm;
Worshipping each door that shuts, while they plod impatient ruts;
Fastening fancy to a string, clipt in each rebellious wing;
Yet I cannot choose but fly, from a dear necessity.
Breezes blow by inward right, on the mission of their might;
Waves, that kiss the clasping shore, wed as they have wed before;
Suns and moons for ever shine, through a dower that is Divine;
Darkness, over waste and town, lets the same soft curtain down;
Every life obeys its law, whether world of worlds or straw;
So my numbers wake or sleep, pulsing as the tidal deep.
Waves, that kiss the clasping shore, wed as they have wed before;
Suns and moons for ever shine, through a dower that is Divine;
Darkness, over waste and town, lets the same soft curtain down;
Every life obeys its law, whether world of worlds or straw;
So my numbers wake or sleep, pulsing as the tidal deep.
Melody is soul of me, made to carol wild and free;
Like the lark upon the wing, that must either die or sing;
Like a furnace that will burn, though it be its funeral urn;
Like a careless noisy wind, fresh from perfumed paths of Ind;
Like a wilful boy at play, laughing, crying all the day;
Like the bee that honey hives—just because its nature drives.
451
Like a furnace that will burn, though it be its funeral urn;
Like a careless noisy wind, fresh from perfumed paths of Ind;
Like a wilful boy at play, laughing, crying all the day;
Like the bee that honey hives—just because its nature drives.
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