SOMETIMES at night before the fire I sit, To ponder in that lonely hour of dream, When o'er the hearth the ghosts of memory flit, And dear dead faces in the embers gleam; The days in multitudes beside me stream, While joy recaptures many a province fair, Glowing, and luminous, and debonair. Little it matters where my dreams begin; Since, like a feathery seed upon the wind, Southward my fancy can but speed and spin, Until beneath my poising brain I find The soul of rustic loveliness, reclin'd In some French woodland quivering to the west, Or clad with flower-gold on some French hill's crest. Sands of Dunkirk are not too cold for me; Nor dales of Roussillon too full of fire; Down Tarn and Lot my memory leaps in glee; Long miles of poplar'd Anjou cannot tire Feet that to frost-capp'd Dauphine aspire; Shouting of waves which on black Penmarch fall -- Slow streams at Aigues-Mortes -- I love them all! FRANCE! take my hands in those kind hands of thine; Like a chill swallow to thy fields I fly! Warmth, beauty, calm and happiness are mine When o'er me bends that soft and radiant sky, When in that vivid atmosphere I sigh -- Sigh, for pure gladness, while my pulses dance A joyful measure to the praise of France. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONNET TO THE AUTUMNAL MOON by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE RICHARD CORY by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON TO THE SHAH (1) by AWHAD AD-DIN 'ALI IBN VAHID MUHAMMAD KHAVARANI THE OLD MAID by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) A SONNET TO YOU! by HARRY RANDOLPH BLYTHE OBSERVATIONS IN THE ART OF ENGLISH POESY: 8. TROCHAIC VERSE: THE FOURTH EPIGRAM by THOMAS CAMPION |