Here let me rest, here nurse the uneasy qualm That yearns within me; And to the heaped-up sea, Sun-spangled in the quiet afternoon, Sing my devotions. In the sun, at the edge of the down, The whin-pods crackle In desultory volleys; And the bank breathes in my face Its hot sweet breath -- Breath that stirs and kindles, Lights that suggest, not satisfy -- Is there never in life or nature An opiate for desire? Has everything here a voice, Saying @3'I am not the goal; Nature is not to be looked at alone; Her breath, like the breath of a mistress, Her breath also, Parches the spirit with longing Sick and enervating longing.'@1 Well, let the matter rest. I rise and brush the windle-straws Off my clothes; and lighting another pipe Stretch myself over the down. Get thee behind me, Nature! I turn my back on the sun And face from the grey new town at the foot of the bay. I know an amber lady Who has her abode At the lips of the street In prisons of coloured glass. I had rather die of her love Than sicken for you, O Nature! Better be drunk and merry Than dreaming awake! Better be Falstaff than Obermann! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE DESERTED HOUSE by MARY ELIZABETH COLERIDGE THE DARKLING THRUSH by THOMAS HARDY TAPESTRY TREES by WILLIAM MORRIS (1834-1896) THE POET'S SONG by ALFRED TENNYSON QUATRAIN: FAME by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH THE NONSENSE SAW OF A SAW-GIRL I SAW IN ARKANSAW by FRED W. ALLSOPP OF GENERAL GOURAUD by ROBERTA BALFOUR |