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Hark! the owlet flaps his wingsIn the pathless dell beneath;Hark! ’tis the night-raven singsTidings of approaching death.
My head is wild with weeping for a griefWhich is the shadow of a gentle mind.I walk into the air (but no reliefTo seek,—or haply, if I sought, to find;It came unsought);—to wonder that a chiefAmong men’s spirits should be…
I dreamed that Milton’s spirit rose, and tookFrom life’s green tree his Uranian lute;And from his touch sweet thunder flowed, and shookAll human things built in contempt of man,—And sanguine thrones and impious altars quaked,Prisons and citadels…
And who feels discord now or sorrow?Love is the universe to-day—These are the slaves of dim to-morrow,Darkening Life’s labyrinthine way.
Is it that in some brighter sphereWe part from friends we meet with here?Or do we see the Future passOver the Present’s dusky glass?Or what is that that makes us seemTo patch up fragments of a dream,Part of which comes…
Dear home, thou scene of earliest hopes and joys,The least of which wronged Memory ever makesBitterer than all thine unremembered tears.
Great Spirit whom the sea of boundless thoughtNurtures within its unimagined caves,In which thou sittest sole, as in my mind,Giving a voice to its mysterious waves—
Follow to the deep wood’s weeds,Follow to the wild-briar dingle,Where we seek to intermingle,And the violet tells her taleTo the odour-scented gale,For they two have enough to doOf such work as I and you.
Silence! Oh, well are Death and Sleep and ThouThree brethren named, the guardians gloomy-wingedOf one abyss, where life, and truth, and joyAre swallowed up—yet spare me, Spirit, pity me,Until the sounds I hear become my soul,And it has left these…
He wanders, like a day-appearing dream,Through the dim wildernesses of the mind;Through desert woods and tracts, which seemLike ocean, homeless, boundless, unconfined.