Oh,
How I long to go,
On a seaward-blowing breeze,
To the garden of the seas—
To brave King Arthur’s land,
To that fair island Alfred made so free,
To the haunt of chivalry,
Where master-birds sang (in the days of song)
So long
And strong!
Oh let me dwell a space by Avon’s tide,
Or hide
In some old grove, where still a note may linger
Of Herrick’s flute,
Of Sidney’s lute,
Or of some precious rondel voiced by a forgotten singer.
Hark!
Even now I hear a lark,
The lark of England’s ripe and mellow story,
The lark of England’s fallow fields of glory,
Springing,
Singing,
Far and high in heaven’s remotest blue,
His wings still cool with dew,
His voice (of which one song-god fair and young
A lyric of immortal fervor sung)
Still firm and true,
Still rich with exultation, rising higher,
And brimming with desire,
To fill ethereal vastness with its fire;
Forgetting love and sympathy and that law
Of human harmony
And rhythmic destiny,
Which darkly through a glass the seers and prophets saw!
O bird,
Whom gods and heroes heard
Sing in the far dim twilight hours of Time,
Whose rapture stirred
Through many a new sweet rhyme
Whilst thou didst rise
Into the skies
To purify thy song in empyrean fire!
Say where
In upper air
Dost hope to find fulfillment of thy dream?
On what far peak seest thou a morning-gleam?
Why shall the stars still blind thee unaware?
Why needst thou mount to sing?
Why seek the sun’s fierce-tempered glow and glare?
Why shall a soulless impulse prompt thy wing?
Why are thy meadows and thy groves bereft
Of Freedom’s inspiration, and so left
To silence in mid-spring?
O lark!
I mark,
Since Shelley died, thy wings have somewhat failed.
A precious note has faded from thy hymn,
Thy lyric fire has smouldered low and dim!
Nor ever have thy cloud-wrapt strains availed
Against the will of tyrants and the dark,
Strong doors of prisons grim,
And shackles manifold,
And dungeons cold,
Wherein sweet Freedom lies
With hopeless longing in her starry eyes
And lifeless languor on her splendid wings!
I hold
This truth as gold:
The grandest life is lowliest; he who sings
To fill the highest purpose need not soar
Above the lintel of the peasant’s door,
And must not hunger for the praise of kings,
Or quench his thirst at too ethereal springs.
As for me
My life is liberty,
And close to earth’s bloom-scented, fragrant floor
I gather more and more
The larger elements,
The fine suggestions of Time’s last events;
I strive to know
Whither all currents flow;
I sing
On branches that the newest breezes swing;
I overreach
The limit of the present, day by day;
I teach
By shrewd anticipation, and foresay
What wider life is coming,
What joys are humming,
Like Hybla’s bees, around the Future’s comb;
My home
Is where all wind-tides and all perfumes meet;
Cool and clean and sweet
The young leaves rustle round my sensitive feet,
Whilst my enraptured tongue
Rolls under it
Morsels of all the songs the world’s best bards have sung!
Lo! Homer’s strength is mine,
And Sappho’s fire divine.
And old Anacreon’s flask of purple wine
Stains every note
Blown from the silvery labyrinth of my charm
(Maurice Thompson)
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Based on Topics: Life Poems, World Poems, Time Poems, Joy & Excitement Poems, Youth Poems, Heaven Poems, Dreams Poems, Kings & Queens Poems, Fire Poems, Home Poems, Success PoemsBased on Keywords: smouldered, hybla, needst, seas-, foresay, rondel, cloud-wrapt, overreach, song-god, mid-spring, wind-tides