517 Leave thee naked to laughter, When leaves fall and cold winds come. THE CLOUD I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, I bear light shade for the leaves when laid From my wings are shaken the dews that waken When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, And whiten the green plains under, I sift the snow on the mountains below, While I sleep in the arms of the blast. In a cavern under is fretted the thunder, Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, Lured by the love of the genii that move Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes, Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, As on the jag of a mountain crag, Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An eagle alit one moment may sit In the light of its golden wings. [beneath, And when sunset may breathe from the lit sea Its ardours of rest and of love, And the crimson pall of eve may fall From the depth of heaven above, With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest, That orbed maiden with white fire laden, Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, Over a torrent sea, Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof, The mountains its columns be. The triumphal arch through which I march With hurricane, fire, and snow, [chair, When the powers of the air are chained to my The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove, While the moist earth was laughing below. 518 I am the daughter of the earth and water, I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; For after the rain when with never a stain, The pavilion of heaven is bare, And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, And out of the caverns of rain, [tomb, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the STANZAS APRIL, 1814 AWAY! the moor is dark beneath the moon, Rapid clouds have drank the last pale beam of even: Away! the gathering winds will call the darkness soon, And profoundest midnight shroud the serene lights of heaven. Pause not! The time is past! Every voice cries, Away! Tempt not with one last tear thy friend's ungentle mood: Thy lover's eye, so glazed and cold, dares not entreat thy stay: Duty and dereliction guide thee back to solitude. Away, away! to thy sad and silent home; Pour bitter tears on its desolated hearth; Watch the dim shades as like ghosts they go and come, The leaves of wasted autumn woods shall float around thine head: The blooms of dewy spring shall gleam beneath thy feet: But thy soul or this world must fade in the frost that binds the dead, Ere midnight's frown and morning's smile, ere thou and peace may meet. The cloud shadows of midnight possess their own repose, For the weary winds are silent, or the moon is in the deep: Some respite to its turbulence unresting ocean knows; Whatever moves, or toils, or grieves, hath its appointed sleep. Thou in the grave shalt rest-yet till the phantoms flee Which that house and heath and garden made dear to thee erewhile, Thy remembrance, and repentance, and deep musings are not free From the music of two voices and the light of one sweet smile. 519 520 MUSIC, WHEN SOFT VOICES DIE MUSIC, when soft voices die, Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, Are heap'd for the beloved's bed; And so thy thoughts, when Thou art gone, THE POET'S DREAM ON a Poet's lips I slept Dreaming like a love-adept In the sound his breathing kept; Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses, But feeds on the aërial kisses Of shapes that haunt Thought's wildernesses. He will watch from dawn to gloom The lake-reflected sun illume The yellow bees in the ivy-bloom, 521 522 Nor heed nor see what things they be- Forms more real than living Man, Nurslings of Immortality! THE WORLD'S WANDERERS TELL me, thou Star, whose wings of light In what cavern of the night Will thy pinions close now? Tell me, Moon, thou pale and gray Seekest thou repose now? Weary Mind, who wanderest ADONAIS An Elegy on the Death of John Keats I WEEP for Adonais-he is dead! O, weep for Adonais! though our tears And thou, sad Hour, selected from all years Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall be An echo and a light unto eternity!' Where wert thou, mighty Mother, when he lay, When Adonais died? With veiled eyes, |