O Thou, Who givest to the woodland wren A throat, like to a little light-set door, That opens to his early joy - to men The spirit of true worship, which is more Than all this sylvan rapture: what a world Is Thine, O Lord! - skies, earth, men, beasts, and birds! The poet and the painter have unfurled Their love and wonder in descriptive words, Or sprightly hues - each, after his own sort, Emptying his heart of its delicious hoards; But all self-conscious blazonry comes short Of that still sense no active mood affords, Ere yet the brush is dipt, or uttered phrase Hath breathed abroad those folds of silent praise! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BONNYBELL: THE BUTTERFLY by EDGAR LEE MASTERS FROM THE WOOLWORTH TOWER by SARA TEASDALE MENELAUS AND HELEN by RUPERT BROOKE SONNET TO LAKE LEMAN by GEORGE GORDON BYRON MOTLEY by WALTER JOHN DE LA MARE THE RUBAIYAT, 1879 EDITION: 100 by OMAR KHAYYAM MONNA INNOMINATA, A SONNET OF SONNETS: 10 by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI THE CASE OF ALBERT IRVING WILLIAMSON by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS HYMN TO SANTA RITA; THE PATRON SAINT OF THE IMPOSSIBLE by ALVEY AUGUSTUS ADEE |