Over the hill, a dull cage Draws fire, catches flame From the cruel beyond; Tell me child, Father To the man, earnest, Earthless, of this Sweet landscape, sing to me. Eurydice- even the Furies wept. The hard wood dappled With honor dark, hark Fair fallen oak, the mind’s Mirror, how lovely we see?
In midsummer morning, lined With grass, this house Where fall of darkness Looks up to grieving sky, I, this mortal airy cage, This humble flight, holds only Close this mournful lyre, This rock’s face, this calcified, Heart’s eye, too old to end, Beholding forked lightning, A flickering candle, the unfeeling, Barbarous wind. I come from
This darksome art no High-hung bells can answer. Light grows less to hymns Gilded to hang between Mortal beauty, hovering And haunting, than these Shy wings which long for rest From those who bow, who bless.