Fire of heaven, whose starry arrow Pierces the veil of timeless night: Molten spheres, whose tempests narrow Their floods to a beam of gentle light, To charm with a moon-ray quenched from fire The land of delight, the land of desire! Smile of love, a flower planted, Sprung in the garden of joy that art: Eyes that shine with a glow enchanted, Whose spreading fires encircle my heart, And warm with a noon-ray drenched in fire My land of delight, my land of desire! 17 The idle life I lead Is like a pleasant sleep, Wherein I rest and heed The dreams that by me sweep. And still of all my dreams In turn so swiftly past, Each in its fancy seems A nobler than the last. And every eve I say, Noting my step in bliss, That I have known no day In all my life like this. 18 Angel spirits of sleep, White-robed, with silver hair, In your meadows fair, Where the willows weep, And the sad moonbeam On the gliding stream Writes her scattered dream: Angel spirits of sleep, Dancing to the weir In the hollow roar Of its waters deep; Know ye how men say That ye haunt no more Isle and grassy shore With your moonlit play; That ye dance not here, White-robed spirits of sleep, All the summer night Threading dances light? 19 ANNIVERSARY What is sweeter than new-mown hay, Fresher than winds o'er-sea that blow, Innocent above children's play, Fairer and purer than winter snow, Frolic as are the morns of May? --If it should be what best I know! What is richer than thoughts that stray From reading of poems that smoothly flow? What is solemn like the delay Of concords linked in a music slow Dying thro' vaulted aisles away? --If it should be what best I know! What gives faith to me when I pray, Setteth my heart with joy aglow, Filleth my song with fancies gay, Maketh the heaven to which I go, The gladness of earth that lasteth for aye? --If it should be what best I know! But tell me thou--'twas on this day That first we loved five years ago-- If 'tis a thing that I can say, Though it must be what best we know. 20 The summer trees are tempest-torn, The hills are wrapped in a mantle wide Of folding rain by the mad wind borne Across the country side. His scourge of fury is lashing down The delicate-rankèd golden corn, That never more shall rear its crown And curtsey to the morn. There shews no care in heaven to save Man's pitiful patience, or provide A season for the season's slave, Whose trust hath toiled and died. So my proud spirit in me is sad, A wreck of fairer fields to mourn, The ruin of golden hopes she had, My delicate-rankèd corn. 21