And the plains that silent lie In the south dimly islanded; And the Alps, whose snows are spread And of living things each one; And my spirit which so long Interpenetrated lie. By the glory of the sky: Be it love, light, harmony, Odour, or the soul of all -- Which from heaven like dew doth fall, Or the mind which feeds this verse Peopling the lone universe. 295 300 305 310 315 They, not it would change; and soon died at 30 THE CLOUD. I ERING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, I bear light shade for the leaves when laid In their noonday dreams. From my wings are shaken the dews that waken The sweet buds every one, When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, I wield the flail of the lashing hail, I sift the snow on the mountains below, While I sleep in the arms of the blast. Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers, Lightning my pilot sits, Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, 25 Over the lakes and the plains, Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, The Spirit he loves remains; 15 10 And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, 30 The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes, Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, When the morning star shines dead; As on the jag of a mountain crag, Which an earthquake rocks and swings, in eagle alit one moment may sit In the light of its golden wings. And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, Its ardours of rest and of love, And the crimson pall of eve may fall From the depth of heaven above, With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest, As still as a brooding dove, 35 40 May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, Like a swarm of golden bees, When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, 55 Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, 60 The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim, When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, Over a torrent sea, The triumphal arch through which I march When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, Is the million-coloured bow; The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove, While the moist earth was laughing below. 70 I am the daughter of earth and water, And the nursling of the sky; I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; 75 For after the rain when with never a stain, The pavilion of heaven is bare, And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams, Build up the blue dome of air, 80 I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, And out of the caverns of rain, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I arise and unbuild it again. TO A SKYLARK. HAIL to thee, blithe spirit! Bird thou never wert, That from heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest Like a cloud of fire; The blu deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. X 5 10 |