The Round Year

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Houghton, Mifflin, 1886 - American poetry - 296 pages

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Page 241 - not afeard ; the isle is ' full of noises, — Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not. Sometimes, a thousand t wangling 'instruments Will hum about mine ears ; and sometime, 'voices, That, if I then had waked after long sleep, Will make me sleep 'again : and then, in dreaming, The clouds, methought, would 'open, and show riches Ready to 'drop upon me, — that, when I waked, I 'cried to dream again ! Ste.
Page 98 - gainst the streams, To taste the luxury of sunny beams Temper'd with coolness. How they ever wrestle With their own sweet delight, and ever nestle Their silver bellies on the pebbly sand! If you but scantily hold out the hand, That very instant not one will remain; But turn your eye, and they are there again.
Page 217 - Drive my dead thoughts over the universe Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth! And, by the incantation of this verse, Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! Be through my lips to unawakened earth The trumpet of a prophecy ! O, Wind, If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
Page 234 - As when, upon a tranced summer-night, Those green-robed senators of mighty woods, Tall oaks, branch-charmed by the earnest stars, Dream, and so dream all night without a stir, Save from one gradual solitary gust Which comes upon the silence, and dies off, As if the ebbing air had but one wave...
Page 271 - Out of an unseen quarry evermore Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer Curves his white bastions with projected roof Round every windward stake, or tree, or door. Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he For number or proportion.
Page 215 - And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core ; To swell the gourd and plump the hazel-shells With a sweet kernel ; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells. Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store ? Sometimes, whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor...
Page 73 - A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands, How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he. I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven. Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord, A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropped, Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say Whose?
Page 217 - I never knew before what beds, Fragrant to smell, and soft to touch, The forest sifts and shapes and spreads ; I never knew before how much Of human sound there is in such Low tones as through the forest sweep When all wild things lie "down to sleep.
Page 231 - Then art thou born, the gods' and men's sweet pleasure. Lastly, where keep the winds their revelry, Their violent turnings and wild whirling hays, But in the air's tralucent gallery? Where she herself is turned a hundred ways, While with those maskers wantonly she plays.
Page 234 - A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars, And, as it were one voice, an agony Of lamentation, like a wind, that shrills All night in a waste land, where no one comes, Or hath come, since the making of the world. Then murmur'd Arthur, " Place me in the barge,

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