With the first blush of morning, my soul is awing, Away o'er the phantom lands free, wandering, I seek thee in hamlet, in woodland, and hall, Till night-shades, enfolding my tired heart, fall. Yet ever and alway, like the thrush in a tree, My heart lifts its preluding love-song to thee; I call through the days, through the long weary years, And slumber at night-fall, refreshed by my tears. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MERCILES BEAUTE; A TRIPLE ROUNDEL: 2. REJECTION by GEOFFREY CHAUCER BABY RUNNING BAREFOOT by DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE SONNET: 54 by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE SATISFIED by HESTER A. BENEDICT THE DRIED MILLPOND by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN ASCENSION OF A CITY FOG by FRANCES COFFIN BOAZ DREAMS: ON THE HUNTING GROUND by DANIEL CHAUNCEY BREWER |