Wrinkled by the fountain spraying

O'er it. And the honey-bee

Hums his drowsy melody

And wanders in his course a-straying

Through the sweet and tangled glade

With his golden mead o'erladen,

Where beneath the pleasant shade

Of the darkling boughs a maiden--

Milky limb and fiery tress,

All at sweetest random laid--

Slumbers, drunken with the excess

Of the noontide's loveliness.

XIX. Milton Read Again (In Surrey)

Three golden months while summer on us stole

I have read your joyful tale another time,

Breathing more freely in that larger clime

And learning wiselier to deserve the whole.

Your Spirit, Master, has been close at hand

And guided me, still pointing treasures rare,

Thick-sown where I before saw nothing fair

And finding waters in the barren land,

Barren once thought because my eyes were dim.

Like one I am grown to whom the common field

And often-wandered copse one morning yield

New pleasures suddenly; for over him

Falls the weird spirit of unexplained delight,

New mystery in every shady place,

In every whispering tree a nameless grace,

New rapture on the windy seaward height.

So may she come to me, teaching me well

To savour all these sweets that lie to hand

In wood and lane about this pleasant land

Though it be not the land where I would dwell.


XX. Sonnet

The stars come out; the fragrant shadows fall

About a dreaming garden still and sweet,

I hear the unseen bats above me bleat

Among the ghostly moths their hunting call,

And twinkling glow-worms all about me crawl.

Now for a chamber dim, a pillow meet

For slumbers deep as death, a faultless sheet,

Cool, white and smooth. So may I reach the hall

With poppies strewn where sleep that is so dear

With magic sponge can wipe away an hour

Or twelve and make them naught. Why not a year,

Why could a man not loiter in that bower

Until a thousand painless cycles wore,

And then-what if it held him evermore?

XXI. The Autumn Morning

See! the pale autumn dawn

Is faint, upon the lawn

That lies in powdered white

Of hoar-frost dight

And now from tree to tree

The ghostly mist we see

Hung like a silver pall

To hallow all.

It wreathes the burdened air

So strangely everywhere

That I could almost fear

This silence drear

Where no one song-bird sings

And dream that wizard things

Mighty for hate or love

Were close above.

White as the fog and fair

Drifting through the middle air

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