 | My Sonnets |  |
29
WRITTEN ON SHOOTER'S HILL.
1
I stand upon thy summit: in my earThy leafy woods make dreamy melody,
As the unresting winds go, whispering, by.
Ye circlers of the earth, on high, I hear
Your many voices; on, like startled deer,
Through the pellucid fields of air, ye fly,
As if ye, shrieking, fled, unendingly,
With lightning speed, some fast-pursuing fear:
And thus, to the rapt ear, for ever speak
The thousand tongues of nature. Thus, he dreams,
Who wanders, far from human haunts, to seek
Her presence, that the winds, the woods, the streams,
The elements, deep joy or sorrow feel.
O that my voice might tell all they to man reveal!
November 10th, 1842.
2
The voice of leaves, the music of the trees,Rustles around me. Winds go, wandering, by,
In quest of the fair clouds that quiet lie,
Basking in golden sunshine; the soft breeze
Tracks their white feet, where'er their steps it sees,
Along the deep blue, sapphire-paven, sky,
Rending their misty garments, as they fly,
While clamour, loud as bursts from summer seas,
When zephyr wakes their waves, resounds on high.
Stretched in the soft, warm, grass, 'neath shadows flung
Down from the over-arching woods, I lie,
Gazing on all that Nature's Poet sung,
And while, o'er the wide landscape, roam my eyes,
Thoughts, that wake not in peopled cities, rise.
November 9th, 1842.
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