ON thy calm joys with what delight I dream Thou dear green valley of my native stream! Fancy o'er thee still waves the enchanting wand, And every nook of thine is fairy land, And ever will be, though the axe should smite In gain's rude service, and in pity's spite, Thy clustering alders, and at length invade The last, last poplars that compose thy shade: Thy stream shall then in native freedom stray, And undermine the willows in its way; These, nearly worthless, may survive this storm, This scythe of desolation, call'd "Reform." No army pass'd that way! yet are they fled, The boughs that, when a schoolboy, screen'd my head: I hate the murderous axe; estranging more The winding vale from what it was of yore, Than e'en mortality in all its rage, And all the change of faces in an age. "Warmth," will they term it, that I speak so free? They strip thy shades, -- thy shades so dear to me! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE GREAT CAROUSAL by LOUIS UNTERMEYER THE SHEPHEARDES CALENDER: FEBRUARY by EDMUND SPENSER TO THE MEN OF KENT by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH SEVEN SAD SONNETS: 4. SHE REMEMBERS by MARY REYNOLDS ALDIS THE BOOK OF LOS by WILLIAM BLAKE HE WONDERS WHETHER TO PRAISE OR TO BLAME HER by RUPERT BROOKE FOURTH BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 21 by THOMAS CAMPION OBSERVATIONS IN THE ART OF ENGLISH POESY: 20. ELEGIAC VRSE: THE THIRD EPIGRAM by THOMAS CAMPION |