Rest in the wood, my soul, on the past no longer brood, on that vanished bitterness, O soul in lassitude, but the honeysuckle part, your wrinkled joys unfurl. The country is more sweet than is a changing pearl. In the forest of l'Hautil, my soul, your strength recall. 'Tis a most shady wood, quite young and very small, crowning a towering hill, remote in ether pale, which o'er the Oise and Seine doth dominate the vale. Fin-d 'Oise one sees from here, its swaying barques afloat on clear water, and Triel that gently lulls my thought: of a belfry of Triel the voice to me is borne, its belfry rose-enwreathed that bathes in golden corn. My woes of those black days in Paris, where are they? Yonder two trains rush past, a pair of swallows gay. One sees where, drunkenly, from Chanteloupe there climbs the path the vintners trace to Tir among the vines, which, hospitable sight, is with a bench endowed, as green as sprouting hope, whose gestures bid me gain this realm, ascend the throne, god of the vintners proud. Rejoice, rejoice, my soul, one sees Pissefontaine . . . | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE NEGRO'S TRAGEDY by CLAUDE MCKAY THE PLAYERS ASK FOR A BLESSING ON THE PSALTERIES AND ON THEMSELVES by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS THIRD BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 12 by THOMAS CAMPION ASKING FOR ROSES by ROBERT FROST THE SLAVE MOTHER by FRANCES ELLEN WATKINS HARPER SAINT PAUL: 1 by FREDERICK WILLIAM HENRY MYERS SONG, FR. MEASURE FOR MEASURE by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE SONNET: 109 by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE UNDERWOODS: BOOK 1: 8. TO MINNIE (WITH A HAND-GLASS) by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON |