These strewn thoughts, by the mountain pathway sprung, I conned for comfort, till I ceased to grieve, And with these flowering thorns I dare to weave The crown, great Mother, on thine altar hung. Teach thou a larger speech to my loosed tongue, And to mine opened eyes thy secrets give, That in thy perfect love I learn to live, And in thine immortality be young. The soul is not on earth an alien thing That hath her life's rich sources otherwhere; She is a parcel of the sacred air. She takes her being from the breath of Spring, The glance of Phoebus is her fount of light, And her long sleep a draught of primal night. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PROLONGED SONNET: WHEN THE TROOPS WERE RETURNING FROM MILAN by NICCOLO DEGLI ALBIZZI ABSALOM AND ACHITOPHEL by JOHN DRYDEN THE LOVER TO THE THAMES OF LONDON TO FAVOUR HIS LADY ... by GEORGE TURBERVILLE TO THE PENDING YEAR by WALT WHITMAN UPON MY FATHERS SUDDEN & DANGEROUS SICKNESS by JOSEPH BEAUMONT |