Till I heard, hard by, a thrush break forth,
    Shouting with his whole voice,
  So that he made the distant air
    And the things around rejoice. 
  My soul gushed, for the sound awoke
    Memories of early joy: 
    I sobbed like a chidden boy.

Sonnet:  Early Aspirations

  How many a throb of the young poet-heart,
    Aspiring to the ideal bliss of Fame,
    Deems that Time soon may sanctify his claim
  Among the sons of song to dwell apart.—­
    Time passes—­passes!  The aspiring flame
  Of Hope shrinks down; the white flower Poesy
  Breaks on its stalk, and from its earth-turned eye
    Drop sleepy tears instead of that sweet dew
      Rich with inspiring odours, insect wings
  Drew from its leaves with every changing sky,
    While its young innocent petals unsunn’d grew. 
      No more in pride to other ears he sings,
    But with a dying charm himself unto:—­
      For a sad season:  then, to active life he springs.

From the Cliffs:  Noon

  The sea is in its listless chime: 
    Time’s lapse it is, made audible,—­
    The murmur of the earth’s large shell. 
  In a sad blueness beyond rhyme
    It ends:  sense, without thought, can pass
    No stadium further.  Since time was,
  This sound hath told the lapse of time.

  No stagnance that death wins,—­it hath
    The mournfulness of ancient life,
    Always enduring at dull strife. 
  As the world’s heart of rest and wrath,
    Its painful pulse is in the sands. 
    Last utterly, the whole sky stands,
  Grey and not known, along its path.

Fancies at Leisure

I. In Spring

  The sky is blue here, scarcely with a stain
  Of grey for clouds:  here the young grasses gain
  A larger growth of green over this splinter
  Fallen from the ruin.  Spring seems to have told Winter
  He shall not freeze again here.  Tho’ their loss
  Of leaves is not yet quite repaired, trees toss
  Sprouts from their boughs.  The ash you called so stiff
  Curves, daily, broader shadow down the cliff.

II.  In Summer

  How the rooks caw, and their beaks seem to clank! 
    Let us just move out there,—­(it might be cool
  Under those trees,) and watch how the thick tank
    By the old mill is black,—­a stagnant pool
  Of rot and insects.  There goes by a lank
    Dead hairy dog floating.  Will Nature’s rule
  Of life return hither no more?  The plank
    Rots in the crushed weeds, and the sun is cruel.

III.  The Breadth of Noon