Beautiful must be the mountains whence ye came,
And bright in the fruitful valleys the streams, wherefrom
Ye learn your song:
Where are those starry woods? O might I wander there,
Among the flowers, which in that heavenly air
Bloom the year long!
Nay, barren are those mountains and spent the streams:
Our song is the voice of desire, that haunts out dreams,
A throe of the heart,
Whose pining visions dim, forbidden hopes profound,
No dying cadence nor long sigh can sound,
For all our art.
Alone, aloud in the raptured ear of men
We pour our dark nocturnal secret; and then,
A night is withdrawn
For those sweet-springing meads and bursting boughs of May,
Dream, while the innumerable choir of day
Welcome the dawn.
~Robert Bridges
 Sexy_Angel_Native · Sun May 07, 2006 @ 05:59pm · 0 Comments |
