Mere withered stalks and fading trees, And pastures spread with hills and rushes, Are all my fading vision sees; Gone, gone are rapture’s flooding gushes! When mushrooms they were fairy bowers, Their marble pillars over-swelling, And Danger paused to pluck the flowers, That in their swarthy rings were dwelling. Yes, Poesy is on the wane, Nor joy, nor fear is mine again. Aye, Poesy hath passed away, And Fancy’s visions undeceive us; The night hath ta’en the place of day, And why should passing shadows grieve us? I thought the flowers upon the hill Were flowers from Adam’s open gardens; But I have had my summer thrills, And I have had my heart’s rewardings. So Poesy is on the wane, I hardly know her face again. And Friendship it hath burned away, Like to a very ember cooling, A make-believe on April day, That sent the simple heart a fooling; Mere jesting in an earnest way, Deceiving on and still deceiving; And Hope is but a fancy-play, And Joy the art of true believing; For Poesy is on the wane, O could I feel her faith again! PASTORAL FANCIES Sweet pastime here my mind so entertains, Abiding pleasaunce, and heart-feeding joys, To meet this blithsome day these painted plains, These singing maids, and chubby laughing boys, Which hay-time and the summer here employs,-- My rod and line doth all neglected lie; A higher joy my former sport destroys: Nature this day doth bait the hook, and I The glad fish am, that’s to be caught thereby. This silken grass, these pleasant flowers in bloom, Among these tasty molehills that do lie Like summer cushions, for all guests that come; Those little feathered folk, that sing and fly Above these trees, in that so gentle sky, Where not a cloud dares soil its heavenly light; And this smooth river softly grieving bye-- All fill mine eyes with so divine a sight, As makes me sigh that it should e’er be night. In sooth, methinks the choice I most should prize Were in these meadows of delight to dwell, To share the joyaunce heaven elsewhere denies, The calmness that doth relish passing well, The quiet conscience, that aye bears the bell, And happy musing Nature would supply, Leaving no room for troubles to rebel: Here would I think all day, at night would lie, The hay my bed, my coverlid the sky.