I A MOTH belated, sun and zephyr-kist, Trembling about a pale arbutus bell, Probing to wildering depths its honey'd cell, -- A noonday thief, a downy sensualist! Not vainly, sprite, thou drawest careless breath, Strikest ambrosia from the cool-cupp'd flowers, And flutterest through the soft, uncounted hours, To drop at last in unawaited death; 'T is something to be glad! and those fine thrills, Which move thee, to my lip have drawn the smile Wherewith we look on joy. Drink! drown thine ills, If ill have any part in thee; erewhile May the pent force -- thy bounded life, set free, Fill larger sphere with equal ecstasy. II With what fine organs art thou dower'd, frail elf! Thy harp is pitch'd too high for dull annoy, Thy life a love-feast, and a silent joy, As mute and rapt as Passion's silent self. I turn from thee, and see the swallow sweep Like a wing'd will, and the keen-scented hound That snuffs with rapture at the tainted ground, -- All things that freely course, that swim or leap, -- Then, hearing glad-voiced creatures men call dumb, I feel my heart, oft sinking 'neath the weight Of Nature's sorrow, lighten at the sum Of Nature's joy; its half-unfolded fate Breathes hope -- for all but those beneath the ban Of the inquisitor and tyrant, man. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO SAMUEL COLERIDGE UPON HEARING HIS 'SOME I FEEL LIKE A MOTHERLESS..' by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON TWO POEMS FROM THE WAR: 1 by ARCHIBALD MACLEISH WORDS INTO WORDS WON'T GO by CLARENCE MAJOR DOMESDAY BOOK: FATHER WHIMSETT by EDGAR LEE MASTERS SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: DIPPOLD THE OPTICIAN by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |