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MY GLADE IN THE WEST.
With music of organ, harp, timbrel, and reed,
It sweeps through the grand gothic arch of my glade.
It sweeps through the grand gothic arch of my glade.
The wind—oh the wind! far above me it rolls;
The trefoil rocks not, leaning over my breast;
It breaks on the pines, like the sea among shoals,
They burst into song, they are tortured from rest.
The trefoil rocks not, leaning over my breast;
It breaks on the pines, like the sea among shoals,
They burst into song, they are tortured from rest.
Haste, wild winds of Poesy, hitherward roll!
Let me die not this soft-breathing death of repose;
Though I break in the blast, grant me music of soul,
For the torn pine grows nearer to heaven than the rose.
Let me die not this soft-breathing death of repose;
Though I break in the blast, grant me music of soul,
For the torn pine grows nearer to heaven than the rose.
Wake, world-weary senses; fair visions, depart;
Green forest nor glade to the minstrel belong;
And a rapturous anthem is brimming my heart—
I suffer, I strive, I am vibrant with song!
Green forest nor glade to the minstrel belong;
And a rapturous anthem is brimming my heart—
I suffer, I strive, I am vibrant with song!
