TRUE as the sun's own work, but more refined, It tells of love behind the artist's eye, Of sweet companionships with earth and sky, And summers stored, the sunshine of the mind. What peace! Sure, ere you breathe, the fickle wind Will break its truce and bend that grass-plume high, Scarcely yet quiet from the gilded fly That flits a more luxurious perch to find. Thanks for a pleasure that can never pall, A serene moment, deftly caught and kept To make immortal summer on my wall. Had he who drew such gladness ever wept? Ask rather could he else have seen at all, Or grown in Nature's mysteries an adept? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...METAMORPHOSES: BOOK 8. BAUCIS AND PHILEMON by PUBLIUS OVIDIUS NASO THE FASHIONS, 1806 by LEWIS BEACH A CITY PIPER by MORRIS ABEL BEER HINC LACHRIMAE; OR THE AUTHOR TO AURORA: 12 by WILLIAM BOSWORTH EPIGRAM ON A ROPE-MAKER HANGED by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) |