I WARM tissue of refulgent vapour fills The valley southward to the hurrying stream, Whose withered and sun-wasted waters gleam Meandering downwards through the terraced hills; Here, even here, the hand of man fulfils Its daily toil, for though alone I seem I hear the clangour of a far-off team, And men that shout above the shouting rills; Nor jars this noise of labour on mine ear, Nor seem, because of these, the spirits less near That animate the mountains and the skies; The self-same heart of Nature shineth clear Through filmy garments of a golden sphere And earnest looks of humble human eyes. II A soft gray line of haze subdues the west That was so rosy half an hour ago; The moaning night-breeze just begins to blow, And now the team that ploughed the mountain's breast Cease their long toil, and dream of home and rest; Now, giant-like, the tall young ploughmen go Between me and the sunset, footing slow; My spirit, as an uninvited guest, Goes with them, wondering what desire, what aim, May stir their hearts and mine with common flame, Or, thoughtless, do their hands suffice their soul? I know not, care not, for I deem no shame To hold men, flowers, and trees, and stars the same, Myself, as these, one atom in the whole. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SURFACES AND MASKS; 30 by CLARENCE MAJOR NIGHT AND DAY: 3 by ISAAC ROSENBERG THAT VAGRANT MISTRAL VEXING THE SUN: A FAR CRY by DARA WIER EPITAPHIUM CITHARISTRIAE by VICTOR GUSTAVE PLARR WRITTEN IN MARCH by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH THE ENGINE by ALEXANDER ANDERSON |