How many springs along my shrouded sense Have these unchanging quietudes unwound This moon-brushed hill, a mile of starlit fence, This windblue sweep of dedicated ground? How many songs have gleamed in middle air Like wistful benedictions overhead? How many hopes, immaculate as prayer, Have borne sweet fruit among the early dead? O many springs, and many, many songs Have I, too sad for singing, tried to sing -- The word escapes that, shadowless, belongs To shadow . . . and to endless spring! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE CRESCENT MOON by AMY LOWELL RUGBY CHAPEL by MATTHEW ARNOLD ARS VICTRIX (IMITATED FROM THEOPHILE GAUTIER) by HENRY AUSTIN DOBSON SAINT PAUL: 1 by FREDERICK WILLIAM HENRY MYERS BLOOD IS THICKER THAN WATER by WALLACE RICE ON PASSING THE NEW MENIN GATE by SIEGFRIED SASSOON |