Lo, as a tree, whose wintry twigs Drink in the sun with fibrous joy, And down into its dampest roots Thrills quickened with the draught of life, I wake unto the dawn, and leave my griefs to drowse. I rise and drink the fresh sweet air: Each draught a future bud of Spring; Each glance of blue a birth of green; I will not mimic yonder oak That dallies with dead leaves ev'n while the primrose peeps. But full of these warm-whispering beams, Like Memnon in his mother's eye, -- Aurora! when the statue stone Moaned soft to her pathetic touch, -- My soul shall own its parent in the founts of day! And ever in the recurring light, True to the primal joy of dawn, Forget its barren griefs; and aye Like aspens in the faintest breeze Turn all its silver sides and tremble into song. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE: 41 by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING TO WORDSWORTH by FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS EASTER WINGS by GEORGE HERBERT EARLY RISING by JOHN GODFREY SAXE ASTROPHEL AND STELLA: 1 by PHILIP SIDNEY SONNET TO THE DEBEN by BERNARD BARTON STANZAS OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF H-- A-- by BERNARD BARTON |