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Of whose soft voice the air expectant seems-
To see it rise thus joyous from its dreams,
green, and flowers burst forth like starry beams; The grass
in the warm sun did start and move, And sea-buds burst under the waves serene. How many a one, though none be near to love,
Loves then the shade of his own soul, half seen
How many a spirit then puts on the pinions
Sweeps in his dream-drawn chariot, far and fast, More fleet than storms. The wide world shrinks below, When winter and despondency are past.
Ye have been fresh and green,
Ye have been fill'd with flowers,
the walks have been
You have beheld how they
With wicker arks did come
The richer cowslips home.
You've heard them sweetly sing,
And seen them in a round;
With honeysuckles crown'd.
round] circular dance.
DEEP in the shady sadness of a vale
Along the margin-sand large foot-marks went, No further than to where his feet had stray'd, And slept there since. Upon the sodden ground His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead, Unsceptred; and his realmless eyes were closed; While his bow'd head seem'd list’ning to the Earth, His ancient mother, for some comfort yet.
It seem'd no force could wake him from his place; But there came one, who with a kindred hand Touch'd his wide shoulders, after bending low With reverence, though to one who knew it not. She was a Goddess of the infant world ; By her in stature the tall Amazon Had stood a pigmy's height: she would have ta'en Achilles by the hair and bent his neck ; Or with a finger stay'd Ixion's wheel. Her face was large as that of Memphian sphinx, Pedestald haply in a palace court, When sages look'd to Egypt for their lore. But oh ! how unlike marble was that face : How beautiful, if sorrow had not made Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self. There was a listening fear in her regard, As if calamity had but begun ; As if the vanward clouds of evil days Had spent their malice, and the sullen rear Was with its stored thunder labouring up. One hand she press'd upon that aching spot Where beats the human heart, as if just there, Though an immortal, she felt cruel pain : The other upon Saturn's bended neck She laid, and to the level of his ear Leaning with parted lips, some words she spake In solemn tenour and deep organ tone : Some mourning words, which in our feeble tongue Would come in these-like accents; O how frail To that large utterance of the early Gods ! ..
. As when, upon a trancèd summer-night,
Save from one gradual solitary gust
Leans now the fair willow, dreaming
In mute desire she sways softly ;
A delicate wind from the Southern seas,
Walter de la Mare.
Above the swelling stream ;
And wild the clouded gleam.
His head is white as snow ;
The robin pipeth now.
A SPIRIT haunts the year's last hours
To himself he talks ;
In the walks ;
Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks Of the mouldering flowers :
Heavily hangs the broad sunflower
Over its grave i' the earth so chilly ; Heavily hangs the hollyhock,
Heavily hangs the tiger-lily.