Sonnets at the English Lakes | ||
80
LXXX. THE SYCAMORE AT HIGH CLOSE.
No wonder that thy shell-like buds should blush;How canst thou blindly meet another dawn
Across the gleaming waters, when the fawn
Fades from the fern, and green the larches flush?
How dost thou not to fan-like fairness rush,
Seeing the snow's last secret is withdrawn
From Wetherlam's warm bosom, and the lawn
Feels the free-rooted daisy's tender push?
Thou know'st, though Spring from purple Langdale call,
And Loughrigg bribe with golden daffodils,
These to the sheath no leaf-time can restore—
Let other trees forget the frost that kills,
But thou beside this aery cottage hall
Can'st continently wait, wise Sycamore!
Sonnets at the English Lakes | ||