 | Poems (1806) |  |
194
SONNET II.
[O Circle, whether erst the lightning's lance]
O Circle, whether erst the lightning's lanceWith its keen azure shot thy wavy way;
Or—such the tales of village maidens, say—
The merry Fayes (what time their troops advance
To thread the fleeting mazes of the dance,
While bends dim Iris in the lunar ray)
Form'd, as they tripp'd with many a twinkling glance,
Thy ring, to speak their revels to the day;
Still fancying, lovely Circle, that I trace
Amid the features of thy fading dyes,
The little footsteps of the faery race—
Still, 'round the springing verdure, shall arise
In soft relief, thy gently-curving grace—
Too trivial but for fond poetic eyes!
P.
| Poems (1806) | |