From childhood’s early wonder at the charm
  That bound the lady in the echoless cave
  Where lay the sheath’d sword and the bugle horn,—­
  Or from the fullgrown intellect, that works
  From age to age, exploring darkest truths,
  With sympathy and knowledge in one yoke
  Ploughing the harvest land.

        The lark is up,
  Piercing the dazzling sky beyond the search
  Of the acutest love:  enough for me
  To hear its song:  but now it dies away,
  Leaving the chirping sparrow to attract
  The listless ear,—­a minstrel, sooth to say,
  Nearly as good.  And now a hum like that
  Of swarming bees on meadow-flowers comes up. 
  Each hath its just and yet luxurious joy,
  As if to live were to be blessed.  The mild
  Maternal influence of nature thus
  Ennobles both the sentient and the dead;—­
  The human heart is as an altar wreathed,
  On which old wine pours, streaming o’er the leaves,
  And down the symbol-carved sides.  Behold! 
  Unbidden, yet most welcome, who be these? 
  The high-priests of this altar, poet-kings;—­
  Chaucer, still young with silvery beard that seems
  Worthy the adoration of a child;
  And Spenser, perfect master, to whom all
  Sweet graces ministered.  The shut eye weaves
  A picture;—­the immortals pass along
  Into the heaven, and others follow still,
  Each on his own ray-path, till all the field
  Is threaded with the foot-prints of the great. 
  And now the passengers are lost; long lines
  Only are left, all intertwisted, dark
  Upon a flood of light.........  I am awake! 
  I hear domestic voices on the stair.

  Already hath the mower finished half
  His summer day’s ripe task; already hath
  His scythe been whetted often; and the heaps
  Behind him lie like ridges from the tide. 
  In sooth, it is high time to wave away
  The cup of Comus, though with nectar filled,
  And sweet as odours to the mariner
  From lands unseen, across the wide blank sea.

Sonnet

  When midst the summer-roses the warm bees
    Are swarming in the sun, and thou—­so full
    Of innocent glee—­dost with thy white hands pull
  Pink scented apples from the garden trees
  To fling at me, I catch them, on my knees,
    Like those who gather’d manna; and I cull
    Some hasty buds to pelt thee—­white as wool
  Lilies, or yellow jonquils, or heartsease;—­
  Then I can speak my love, ev’n tho’ thy smiles
    Gush out among thy blushes, like a flock
  Of bright birds from rose-bowers; but when thou’rt gone
    I have no speech,—­no magic that beguiles,
    The stream of utterance from the harden’d rock:—­
  The dial cannot speak without the sun!

Stars and Moon

  Beneath the stars and summer moon
    A pair of wedded lovers walk,
  Upon the stars and summer moon
    They turn their happy eyes, and talk.