54637: The Glory

<p dir="ltr"> The glory of the beauty of the morning,---<br> The cuckoo crying over the untouched dew;<br> The blackbird that has found it, and the dove<br> That tempts me on to something sweeter than love;<br> White clouds ranged even and fair as new-mown hay;<br> The heat, the stir, the sublime vacancy<br> Of sky and meadow and forest and my own heart:---<br> The glory invites me, yet it leaves me scorning<br> All I can ever do, all I can be,<br> Beside the lovely of motion, shape, and hue,<br> The happiness I fancy fit to dwell<br> In beauty's presence. Shall I now this day<br> Begin to seek as far as heaven, as hell,<br> Wisdom or strength to match this beauty, start<br> And tread the pale dust pitted with small dark drops,<br> In hope to find whatever it is I seek,<br> Hearkening to short-lived happy-seeming things<br> That we know naught of, in the hazel copse?<br> Or must I be content with discontent<br> As larks and swallows are perhaps with wings?<br> And shall I ask at the day's end once more<br> What beauty is, and what I can have meant<br> By happiness? And shall I let all go,<br> Glad, weary, or both? Or shall I perhaps know<br> That I was happy oft and oft before,<br> Awhile forgetting how I am fast pent,<br> How dreary-swift, with naught to travel to,<br> Is Time? I cannot bite the day to the core.<br></p>