 | The Poetry of Real Life |  |
WRITTEN UPON READING THE PRECEDING SONNET, LONG AFTER IT WAS COMPOSED IN ITALY.
Oh, well do I remember it: the day,The time, the clime, the spot, where I first wrote
Those lines, on which my tearful eyes now dote!
The mere remembrance of it still will play
Like a bright halo round my head, when grey
My hairs are grown, and nought else I can note!
Like a remembered glory doth it float
Round me, and, as transfigured, on my way
I move, in blessedness unspeakable!
Those lines to others are mere common-place,
To me they seem, and are, a miracle:
In heaven's fire I dipped my pen, to trace
The words, when on me that bright vision fell,
That calm, subduing glance of God's own face!
| The Poetry of Real Life | |