WHETHER 't was in that dome of evening sky, So hollow where the few great stars were bright, Or something in the cricket's lonely cry, Or, farther off, where swelled upon the night The surf-beat of the symphony's delight, Then died in crumbling cadences away -- A dream of Schubert's soul, too sweet to stay: Whether from these, or secret spell within, -- It seemed an empty waste of endless sea, Where the waves mourned for what had never been, Where the wind sought for what could never be: Then all was still, in vast expectancy Of powers that waited but some mystic sign To touch the dead world to a life divine. Me, too, it filled -- that breathless, blind desire; And every motion of the oars of thought Thrilled all the deep in flashes -- sparks of fire In meshes of the darkling ripples caught. Swiftly rekindled, and then quenched to naught; And the dark held me; wish and will were none: A soul unformed and void, silent, alone, And brooded over by the Infinite One. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A PRAYER TO THE WIND by THOMAS CAREW THE RESOLVE by MARY LEE CHUDLEIGH THE SUPPLIANT by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON EARLY RISING by JOHN GODFREY SAXE THE NEW TIMON AND THE POETS by ALFRED TENNYSON DESERT by PATRICK JOHN MCALISTER ANDERSON |