Through the soft evening air enwinding all, Rocks, woods, fort, cannon, pacing sentries, endless wilds, In dulcet streams, in flutes' and cornets' notes, Electric, pensive, turbulent, artificial, (Yet strangely fitting even here, meanings unknown before, Subtler than ever, more harmony, as if born here, related here, Not to the city's fresco'd rooms, not to the audience of the opera house, Sounds, echoes, wandering strains, as really here at home, Sonnambula's innocent love, trios with Norma's anguish, And thy ecstatic chorus Poliuto;) Ray'd in the limpid yellow slanting sundown, Music, Italian music in Dakota. While Nature, sovereign of this gnarl'd realm, Lurking in hidden barbaric grim recesses, Acknowledging rapport however far remov'd, (As some old root or soil of earth its last-born flower or fruit,) Listens well pleas'd. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON RECEIVING [THE FIRST] NEWS OF THE WAR by ISAAC ROSENBERG MOST LOVELY SHADE; FOR ALICE BOUVERIE by EDITH SITWELL FRIENDS by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS A NEW BIRTH by EDMUND JOHN ARMSTRONG THE ICONOCLAST by WILLIAM ROSE BENET THE WANDERING JEW by PIERRE JEAN DE BERANGER A WORD TO THE 'ELECT' by ANNE BRONTE |