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And you, ye stars, Who slowly begin to marshal, As of old, in the fields of heaven, Your distant, melancholy lines!
By prashant sapkota5 years ago in Poets
Silently without my window, Tapping gently at the pane, Falls the rain. Through the trees sighs the breeze
Days undefiled by luxury or sloth, Firm self-denial, manners grave and staid, Rights equal, laws with cheerfulness obeyed,
O thou, by Nature taught To breathe her genuine thought In numbers warmly pure, and sweetly strong; Who first on mountains wild,
I lay and dreamed. The master came In his old woven dress; I stood in joy, and yet in shame, Oppressed with earthliness.
I have wished in the grief of my heart to know If the vase yet treasured that nectar so clear, And to see what this beautiful valley could show
This rich Marble doth enter The honoured Wife of Winchester, A Viscount's daughter, an Earls heir, Besides what her virtues fair
Brighter shone the golden shadows; On the cool wind softly came The low, sweet tones of happy flowers, Singing little Violet's name.
The ways are green with the gladdening sheen Of the young year's fairest daughter. O, the shadows that fleet o'er the springing wheat!
Cards, and swords, and a lady's love, That is a tale worth reading, An insult veiled, a downcast glove, And rapiers leap unheeding.
As we gaze up life's slope, as we gaze In the morn, ere the dewdrops are dry, What splendour hangs over the ways,
An old lane, an old gate, an old house by a tree; A wild wood, a wild brook they will not let me be: In boyhood I knew them, and still they call to me.
