STILL are the cowslips from thy bosom springing, O far-off, grassy dell? -- and dost thou see, When southern winds first wake their vernal singing, The star-gleam of the wood anemone? Doth the shy ringdove haunt thee yet? the bee Hang on thy flowers as when I breathed farewell To their wild blooms? and, round my beechen tree, Still, in green softness, doth the moss-bank swell? Oh, strange illusion! by the fond heart wrought, Whose own warm life suffuses nature's face! @3My@1 being's tide of many-coloured thought Hath passed from thee; and now, rich, leafy place I paint thee oft, scarce consciously, a scene, Silent, forsaken, dim, shadowed by what hath been. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WINGED MAN by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET SAILING BEYOND SEAS (OLD STYLE) by JEAN INGELOW THE HOUSE OF LIFE: 11. THE LOVE-LETTER by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI PHANTOMS ALL by HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD THE DISCOVERY; SONNET by JOHN COLLINGS SQUIRE TO A. E. HOUSMAN by MARGARET ASH |