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POETRY




          To me alone there came a thought of grief:
          A timely utterance gave that thought relief,

          And I again am strong:
          The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep;
          No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;
          I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng,
          The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
          And all the earth is gay;
          Land and sea
          Give themselves up to jollity,
          And with the heart of May
          Doth every Beast keep holiday;—
          Thou Child of Joy,
          Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-boy.

          Ye blessèd creatures, I have heard the call
          Ye to each other make; I see
          The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;
          My heart is at your festival,
          My head hath its coronal,
          The fulness of your bliss, I feel—I feel it all.
          Oh evil day! if I were sullen
          While Earth herself is adorning,
          This sweet May-morning,
          And the Children are culling
          On every side,
          In a thousand valleys far and wide,
          Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm,
          And the Babe leaps up on his Mother's arm:—
          I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!
          —But there's a Tree, of many, one,
          A single field which I have looked upon,
          Both of them speak of something that is gone;
          The Pansy at my feet
          Doth the same tale repeat:
          Whither is fled the visionary gleam?



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