John Swinnerton Phillimore.
THIS is the place
Where far from the unholy populace
The daughter of Philosophy and Sleep
court doth keep,
Sweet Contemplation. To her service bound
The little amiable summer
The deep black soil
Makes mute her palace-floors with thick trefoil;
The grasses sagely nodding
Curtain her bed;
And lest the feet of strangers overpass
Her walls of grass,
Gravely a little river
goes his rounds
To beat the bounds.
No bustling flood
To make a tumult in her neighbourhood,
But such a stream as knows to
go and come
Therein are chambers tapestried with weeds
And screend with reeds;
roof the waterlily-leaves serene
Spread tiles of green.
The suns large eye
Falls soberly upon me where I lie;
For delicate webs of immaterial haze
The air is full of music none knows what,
The living echo of dead voices fills
I hear the song
Of cuckoo answering cuckoo all day long:
And know not if it be my inward
For my delight
Making rememberd poetry appear
As sound in the ear:
Like a salt savour poignant
in the breeze
From distant seas.
Dreams without sleep,
And sleep too clear for dreaming and too deep;
And Quiet very large
About me rolld;
Satiety, that momentary flower,
Stretchd to an hour:
These are her gifts which
all mankind may use,
And all refuse.
Copyright: All texts on Bibliomania are © Bibliomania.com Ltd,
and may not be reproduced in any form without our written permission.
See our FAQ for more details.