 | My Sonnets |  |
30
WRITTEN IN GREENWICH PARK.
1
In this tall avenue of rustling trees,This leafy home of solitude, to bask,—
(In acted smiles, not needing here to mask
My face, where nature actual pleasure sees),
To couch me, warmly, thus, with pleasant ease,
In earth's green mantle,—free from every task,
Sweet Spenser to companion, or to ask,
As, peeping, through the lifted leaves, you go,
Thus, whisperer to the whispering boughs, young breeze,
The meanings uttered by your soft, low, voice,—
Outstretched, these voiceful chesnuts, thus, below,
In the deep joy of all things to rejoice,—
Than these delights no greater do I know;
Of all sweet pleasures these should be my choice.
September 17th, 1843.
2
Earth sleeps, o'ercome with gladness. Hark! around,The rustle of the leaves you scarcely hear,
And scarcely falls, upon the listening ear,
The dew of melody, the rain of sound,
That, o'er his nested dwelling on the ground,
(By him remembered whether far or near,
Amid the wilderness of clouds, still dear),
Yon skylark, that the eye, at length, has found,
In the blue depths of heaven, shakes down through air.
The louder voices of the earth are dumb,—
The tongues of heaven are mute. Hark! everywhere,
Unstartling, silence walks, save, when up come
Songs, drunk with joy, from where, in golden shade,
The shrill grasshopper pipes beneath some tall grass blade.
September 17th, 1843.
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