And watch, far off, the drowsy lines
Of herded cattle crop and pass,
The vintagers among the vines,
The mowers in the dewy grass;
And nothing would I drink or eat
Save heaven's clear sunlight and the spring
Of earth's own welling waters sweet,
That never make the pulses sting.
* * * * *
SONNET[64] (1822)
Oh, he whose pain means life, whose life means pain,
May feel again what I have felt before;
Who has beheld his bliss above him soar
And, when he sought it, fly away again;
Who in a labyrinth has tried in vain,
When he has lost his way, to find a door;
Whom love has singled out for nothing more
Than with despondency his soul to bane;
Who begs each lightning for a deadly stroke,
Each stream to drown the heart that cannot heal
From all the cruel stabs by which it broke;
Who does begrudge the dead their beds like steel
Where they are safe from love's beguiling yoke—
He knows me quite, and feels what I must feel.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: From Addresses on Religion (Discourse IV).]
[Footnote 2: This refers to the second book, which takes the form of a dialogue between the inquirer and a Spirit.]
[Footnote 3: An allusion to the second book.]
[Footnote 4: The audience gathered in the building of the Royal
Academy at Berlin.—ED.]