109
TO AGANIPPE.
Yet once again, thou little silent Spring,
Which, welling from beneath the green hillside,
Makest one dimple on the placid face
Of contemplative Avon, one alone
For ever floating off, ever caught back,
Or, as it dies, reborn,—yet once again
I stand beside thee with a heart at home,
And can behold thee with the quiet love
We give to things domestic, which we see
At morn with tranquil pleasure, and at night
Can close our eyes on calmly, doubting not
To see the same again with morn renewed.
Yet once again beside thee, little Spring,
The murmuring Muse draws near, and with a voice
That might, here heard among these shady trees,
Be taken for thy voice, silent Spring,
Bids me rejoice aloud!
More foreign lands,
quiet Spring, than in a summer's length
Thou bringest bubbles from thy secret cell
To disappear in daylight, have my eyes
