O Thou, Who givest to the woodland wren A throat, like to a little light-set door, That opens to his early joy - to men The spirit of true worship, which is more Than all this sylvan rapture: what a world Is Thine, O Lord! - skies, earth, men, beasts, and birds! The poet and the painter have unfurled Their love and wonder in descriptive words, Or sprightly hues - each, after his own sort, Emptying his heart of its delicious hoards; But all self-conscious blazonry comes short Of that still sense no active mood affords, Ere yet the brush is dipt, or uttered phrase Hath breathed abroad those folds of silent praise! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MUSIC AND MEMORY by JOHN ALBEE THE INDIAN EMPEROR: SONG by JOHN DRYDEN A PROPHECY by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR ON CATULLUS by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR A MOTHER'S LOVE by JAMES MONTGOMERY |