The wooing air is jubilant with song, And blossoms swell As leaps thy liquid melody along The dusky dell, Where silence, late supreme, foregoes her wonted spell. Ah, whence, in sylvan solitudes remote, Hast learned the lore That breeds delight in every echoing note, The woodlands o'er; As when through slanting sun descends the quickening shower? Thy hermitage is peopled with the dreams That gladden sleep; Here fancy dallies with delirious themes 'Mid shadows deep, Till eyes, unused to tears, with wild emotion weep. We rise, alas, to find out visions fled! But thine remain. Night weaves of golden harmonies the thread, And fills thy brain With joys that overflow in love's awakening strain. Yet thou, from mortal influence apart, Seek'st naught of praise; The empty plaudits of the emptier heart Taint not thy lays: Thy Maker's smile alone thy tuneful bosom sways. Teach me, thou warbling eremite, to sing Thy rhapsody; Nor borne on vain ambition's vaunting wing, But led of thee To rise from earthly dreams to hymn eternity. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE ECHOING GREEN, FR. SONGS OF INNOCENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE TO THE QUEEN by ALFRED TENNYSON ON THE LIFE OF MAN by FRANCIS BEAUMONT ON THE RANGE by BARCROFT HENRY BOAKE AN ORIENTAL BALLAD by BERTON BRALEY |