HIGH above hate I dwell: O storms! farewell. Though at my sill your daggered thunders play, Lawless and loud to-morrow as to-day, To me they sound more small Than a young fay's footfall: Soft and far-sunken, forty fathoms low In Long Ago, And winnowed into silence on that wind Which takes wars like a dust, and leaves but love behind. Hither Felicity Doth climb to me, And bank me in with turf and marjoram Such as bees lip, or the new-weaned lamb; With golden barberry-wreath, And bluets thick beneath; One grosbeak, too, mid apple-buds a guest With bud-red breast, Is singing, singing! All the hells that rage Float less than April fog below our hermitage. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BALLADE AGAINST THE ENEMIES OF FRANCE by FRANCOIS VILLON MY ORCHA'D IN LINDEN LEA by WILLIAM BARNES THE JOYS OF THE ROAD by BLISS CARMAN A CORN SONG by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR VAIN TEARS, FR. THE QUEEN OF CORINTH by JOHN FLETCHER |