STILL are the cowslips from thy bosom springing, O far-off, grassy dell? -- and dost thou see, When southern winds first wake their vernal singing, The star-gleam of the wood anemone? Doth the shy ringdove haunt thee yet? the bee Hang on thy flowers as when I breathed farewell To their wild blooms? and, round my beechen tree, Still, in green softness, doth the moss-bank swell? Oh, strange illusion! by the fond heart wrought, Whose own warm life suffuses nature's face! @3My@1 being's tide of many-coloured thought Hath passed from thee; and now, rich, leafy place I paint thee oft, scarce consciously, a scene, Silent, forsaken, dim, shadowed by what hath been. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO A FRIEND I CAN'T FIND by JAMES GALVIN IMMORTALITY [OR, VERSE] by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR WIFE, CHILDREN AND FRIENDS by WILLIAM ROBERT SPENCER THE GLASSES AND THE BIBLE by ST. CLAIR ADAMS THE ROVER O' LOCHRYAN by HEW AINSLIE THE SEAMSTRESS by HENRI BARBUSSE |