How many springs along my shrouded sense Have these unchanging quietudes unwound This moon-brushed hill, a mile of starlit fence, This windblue sweep of dedicated ground? How many songs have gleamed in middle air Like wistful benedictions overhead? How many hopes, immaculate as prayer, Have borne sweet fruit among the early dead? O many springs, and many, many songs Have I, too sad for singing, tried to sing -- The word escapes that, shadowless, belongs To shadow . . . and to endless spring! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LINES ON HEARING THE ORGAN by CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY A THOUGHT ON DEATH by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD TO ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING by ANNE CHARLOTTE LYNCH BOTTA THE COMPLAINT OF NATURE by MICHAEL BRUCE IN LONDON ON SATURDAY NIGHT by ROBERT WILLIAMS BUCHANAN |