'Tis very heaven to taste the wells of sleep,
The founts of supersensuous repose!—
The sibyl's rune still murmurs on the breeze,
The purple night falls thick about the trees,
And blessed stars, like lilies white and rose,
Burst into bloom on heaven's far azure deep.
[THE NIGHTINGALE.]
O seraph bird who on God's altar-stairs
Dost ring, in showers of silver peals, thy bells
Of song that ceaseless flows like dropping-wells,
And sprinkles all the dusk with holy prayers!
O welkin glad, shot through and through with song,
As upward springs the spirit tipt with flame!
'Tis not to Itys dead nor Dian's shame
These joy-pangs, with their hint of tears, belong.
The life which pulses in the bursting year
A thousand choirs hymn on the sunlit globe;
But, lest the living flame to ashes turn,
Thou, in the voiceless night, O priestly seer,
Interpreter of nature, tak'st thy robe,
And fill'st with vocal fire the sacred urn.
[THE LOON.]
'Neath northern skies thou hid'st thy punctual nest
By crystal waters in their lonely play,
Meeting the challenge with which instant day
And night thy chariness and courage test.
Half bird, half spirit!—O elusive quest
That thinks thy dappled mould but common clay!
Thou wak'st with demon laughter Ha Ha Bay,
Art soul of solitariness, unblest.