SOMETIMES at night before the fire I sit, To ponder in that lonely hour of dream, When o'er the hearth the ghosts of memory flit, And dear dead faces in the embers gleam; The days in multitudes beside me stream, While joy recaptures many a province fair, Glowing, and luminous, and debonair. Little it matters where my dreams begin; Since, like a feathery seed upon the wind, Southward my fancy can but speed and spin, Until beneath my poising brain I find The soul of rustic loveliness, reclin'd In some French woodland quivering to the west, Or clad with flower-gold on some French hill's crest. Sands of Dunkirk are not too cold for me; Nor dales of Roussillon too full of fire; Down Tarn and Lot my memory leaps in glee; Long miles of poplar'd Anjou cannot tire Feet that to frost-capp'd Dauphine aspire; Shouting of waves which on black Penmarch fall -- Slow streams at Aigues-Mortes -- I love them all! FRANCE! take my hands in those kind hands of thine; Like a chill swallow to thy fields I fly! Warmth, beauty, calm and happiness are mine When o'er me bends that soft and radiant sky, When in that vivid atmosphere I sigh -- Sigh, for pure gladness, while my pulses dance A joyful measure to the praise of France. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE CENSUS-TAKER by ROBERT FROST THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN POLITICAL GREATNESS by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY SONNET PREFIXED TO 'NENNIO, OR A TREATISE OF NOBILITY' by EDMUND SPENSER A PRESENCE by KENNETH SLADE ALLING PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 36. ASH-SHAKIR by EDWIN ARNOLD |