I hear you, little bird, Shouting a-swing above the broken wall. Shout louder yet: no song can tell it all. Sing to my soul in the deep, still wood: ’T is wonderful beyond the wildest word: I ’d tell it, too, if I could. Oft when the white still dawn Lifted the skies and pushed the hills apart, I ’ve felt it like a glory in my heart, (The world’s mysterious stir) But had no throat like yours, my bird, Nor such a listener.
Written after Seeing Millet’s World-Famous Painting “God made man in His own image, In the image of God made He him.” —GENESIS. i. 27. BOWED by the weight of centuries he leans Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground, The emptiness of ages in his face, And on his back the burden of the world...
I hear you, little bird, Shouting a-swing above the broken wall. Shout louder yet: no song can tell it all. Sing to my soul in the deep, still wood: ’T is wonderful beyond the wildest word: I ’d tell it, too, if I could. Oft when the white still dawn Lifted the skies and pushed the hills apart,...
The muses wrapped in mysteries of light Came in a rush of music on the night; And I was lifted wildly on quick wings, And borne away into the deep of things. The dead doors of my being broke apart; A wind of rapture blew across the heart; The inward song of worlds rang still and clear; I felt...
The spirit OF EARTH with still, restoring hands, Mid ruin moves, in glimmering chasm gropes, And mosses mantle and the bright flower opes; But Death the Ploughman wanders in all lands, And to the last of Earth his furrow stands. The grave is never hidden: fearful hopes Follow the dead upon the...
I looked one night, and there Semiramis, With all her mourning doves about her head, Sat rocking on an ancient road of Hell, Withered and eyeless, chanting to the moon Snatches of song they sang to her of old Upon the lighted roofs of Nineveh. And then her voice rang out with rattling laugh: “...
