He half unearthed the Titans with his voice, The Stars are leaves before his windy riot; The spheres a little shake; but see, of choice, How closely he wraps up in hazel quiet. And while he sleeps the bees are numbering The fox-glove flowers from base to sealed tip Till fond, they doze upon his slumbering, And smear with honey his wide, smiling lip. He may not be disturbed: it is the hour That to his deepest solitude belongs; The unfrighted reed opens to noontide flower, And poets hear him sing their lyric songs, While the Arcadian hunter, baffled, hot, Scourges his Statue in its ivy-grot. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SALLY IN OUR ALLEY by HENRY CAREY (1687-1743) A NEWPORT ROMANCE by FRANCIS BRET HARTE LITTLE BELL by THOMAS WESTWOOD WHEN KREISLER PLAYS by FRANCES BARTLETT THE TROUBADOUR by HORTENSE DE BEAUHARNAIS THE DRUG-SHOP, OR, ENDYMION IN EDMONSTOUN by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET THE FORCED RECRUIT AT SOLFERINO by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING |