Or doth her voice in sweetest accents rise,
From bird, or brook, or is it in the cries
The wild wind wakes upon the lonely lea?
From bird, or brook, or is it in the cries
The wild wind wakes upon the lonely lea?
The soul of poesy is everywhere,
Unto the eyes and ears of him who sings,
And all the world is filled with wondrous things,
To him whose soul reflects the beauties there.—
There is no thing so mean the worlds among,
That is not mete to grace the poet's song.
Unto the eyes and ears of him who sings,
And all the world is filled with wondrous things,
To him whose soul reflects the beauties there.—
There is no thing so mean the worlds among,
That is not mete to grace the poet's song.
THE DESERT
Boundless, changeless, and cruel as the sea,
With brazen skies and suffocating air,
With burning rocks and sand, and blinding glare,
And silent ether, heavy with despair,
Stretching away e'en to infinity.
With brazen skies and suffocating air,
With burning rocks and sand, and blinding glare,
And silent ether, heavy with despair,
Stretching away e'en to infinity.
DAWN
Slowly the waning stars above grow dim,
Flicker and pale, like sparks that disappear;—
Far in the east, the cold horizon's rim
Softens a shade as dawn of day draws near.
Flicker and pale, like sparks that disappear;—
Far in the east, the cold horizon's rim
Softens a shade as dawn of day draws near.
Then comes a flush, a soft, pale crimson streak,
That warms and mellows as the young day grows
That warms and mellows as the young day grows
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