Best Famous Nearer Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Nearer poems. This is a select list of the best famous Nearer poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Nearer poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of nearer poems.

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• All Famous Nearer Poems

Written by William Butler Yeats | Her Anxiety Earth in beauty dressed Awaits returning spring. All true love must die, Alter at the best Into some lesser thing. Prove that I lie. Such body lovers have, Such exacting breath, That they touch or sigh. Every touch they give, Love is nearer death. Prove that I lie.

Written by Rudyard Kipling | A Song of Travel Where's the lamp that Hero lit Once to call Leander home? Equal Time hath shovelled it 'Neath the wrack of Greece and Rome. Neither wait we any more That worn sail which Argo bore. Dust and dust of ashes close All the Vestal Virgin's care; And the oldest altar shows But an older darkness there. Age-encamped Oblivion Tenteth every light that shone. Yet shall we, for Suns that die, Wall our wanderings from desire? Or, because the Moon is high, Scorn to use a nearer fire? Lest some envious Pharaoh stir, Make our lives our sepulcher? Nay! Though Time with petty Fate Prison us and Emperors, By our Arts do we create That which Time himself devours-- Such machines as well may run 'Gainst the Horses of the Sun. When we would a new abode, Space, our tyrant King no more, Lays the long lance of the road At our feet and flees before, Breathless, ere we overwhelm, To submit a further realm!

Written by Rabindranath Tagore | The Hero Mother, let us imagine we are travelling, and passing through a strange and dangerous country. You are riding in a palanquin and I am trotting by you on a red horse. It is evening and the sun goes down. The waste of Joradighi lies wan and grey before us. The land is desolate and barren. You are frightened and thinking-"I know not where we have come to." I say to you, "Mother, do not be afraid." The meadow is prickly with spiky grass, and through it runs a narrow broken path. There are no cattle to be seen in the wide field; they have gone to their village stalls. It grows dark and dim on the land and sky, and we cannot tell where we are going. Suddenly you call me and ask me in a whisper, "What light is that near the bank?" Just then there bursts out a fearful yell, and figures come running towards us. You sit crouched in your palanquin and repeat the names of the gods in prayer. The bearers, shaking in terror, hide themselves in the thorny bush. I shout to you, "Don't be afraid, mother. I am here." With long sticks in their hands and hair all wild about their heads, they come nearer and nearer. I shout, "Have a care, you villains! One step more and you are dead men." They give another terrible yell and rush forward. You clutch my hand and say, "Dear boy, for heaven's sake, keep away from them." I say, "Mother, just you watch me." Then I spur my horse for a wild gallop, and my sword and buckler clash against each other. The fight becomes so fearful, mother, that it would give you a cold shudder could you see it from your palanquin. Many of them fly, and a great number are cut to pieces. I know you are thinking, sitting all by yourself, that your boy must be dead by this time. But I come to you all stained with blood, and say,"Mother, the fight is over now." You come out and kiss me, pressing me to your heart, and you say to yourself, "I don't know what I should do if I hadn't my boy to escort me." A thousand useless things happen day after day, and why couldn't such a thing come true by chance? It would be like a story in a book. My brother would say, "Is it possible? I always thought he was so delicate!" Our village people would all say in amazement, "Was it not lucky that the boy was with his mother?"

Written by Percy Bysshe Shelley | A Dream of the Unknown I DREAM'D that as I wander'd by the way Bare winter suddenly was changed to spring, And gentle odours led my steps astray, Mix'd with a sound of waters murmuring Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay 5 Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling Its green arms round the bosom of the stream, But kiss'd it and then fled, as thou mightest in dream. There grew pied wind-flowers and violets, Daisies, those pearl'd Arcturi of the earth, 10 The constellated flower that never sets; Faint oxlips; tender bluebells, at whose birth The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets¡ª Like a child, half in tenderness and mirth¡ª Its mother's face with heaven-collected tears, 15 When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears. And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine, Green cow-bind and the moonlight-colour'd may, And cherry-blossoms, and white cups, whose wine Was the bright dew yet drain'd not by the day; 20 And wild roses, and ivy serpentine With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray; And flowers azure, black, and streak'd with gold, Fairer than any waken'd eyes behold. And nearer to the river's trembling edge 25 There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prank'd with white, And starry river-buds among the sedge, And floating water-lilies, broad and bright, Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge With moonlight beams of their own watery light; 30 And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen. Methought that of these visionary flowers I made a nosegay, bound in such a way That the same hues, which in their natural bowers 35 Were mingled or opposed, the like array Kept these imprison'd children of the Hours Within my hand,¡ªand then, elate and gay, I hasten'd to the spot whence I had come That I might there present it¡ªoh! to Whom? 40

Written by C S Lewis | Science-fiction Cradlesong By and by Man will try To get out into the sky, Sailing far beyond the air From Down and Here to Up and There. Stars and sky, sky and stars Make us feel the prison bars. Suppose it done. Now we ride Closed in steel, up there, outside Through our port-holes see the vast Heaven-scape go rushing past. Shall we? All that meets the eye Is sky and stars, stars and sky. Points of light with black between Hang like a painted scene Motionless, no nearer there Than on Earth, everywhere Equidistant from our ship. Heaven has given us the slip. Hush, be still. Outer space Is a concept, not a place. Try no more. Where we are Never can be sky or star. From prison, in a prison, we fly; There's no way into the sky.

Written by Philip Larkin | Aubade I work all day, and get half-drunk at night. Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare. In time the curtain-edges will grow light. Till then I see what's really always there: Unresting death, a whole day nearer now, Making all thought impossible but how And where and when I shall myself die. Arid interrogation: yet the dread Of dying, and being dead, Flashes afresh to hold and horrify. The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse -- The good not done, the love not given, time Torn off unused -- nor wretchedly because An only life can take so long to climb Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never; But at the total emptiness for ever, The sure extinction that we travel to And shall be lost in always. Not to be here, Not to be anywhere, And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true. This is a special way of being afraid No trick dispels. Religion used to try, That vast moth-eaten musical brocade Created to pretend we never die, And specious stuff that says No rational being Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing That this is what we fear -- no sight, no sound, No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with, Nothing to love or link with, The anaesthetic from which none come round. And so it stays just on the edge of vision, A small unfocused blur, a standing chill That slows each impulse down to indecision. Most things may never happen: this one will, And realisation of it rages out In furnace-fear when we are caught without People or drink. Courage is no good: It means not scaring others. Being brave Lets no one off the grave. Death is no different whined at than withstood. Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape. It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know, Have always known, know that we can't escape, Yet can't accept. One side will have to go. Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring Intricate rented world begins to rouse. The sky is white as clay, with no sun. Work has to be done. Postmen like doctors go from house to house.

Written by Charles Baudelaire | The Ghost Down the street as I was drifting with the city's human tide, Came a ghost, and for a moment walked in silence by my side -- Now my heart was hard and bitter, and a bitter spirit he, So I felt no great aversion to his ghostly company. Said the Shade: `At finer feelings let your lip in scorn be curled, `Self and Pelf', my friend, has ever been the motto for the world.' And he said: `If you'd be happy, you must clip your fancy's wings, Stretch your conscience at the edges to the size of earthly things; Never fight another's battle, for a friend can never know When he'll gladly fly for succour to the bosom of the foe. At the power of truth and friendship let your lip in scorn be curled -- `Self and Pelf', my friend, remember, is the motto of the world. `Where Society is mighty, always truckle to her rule; Never send an `i' undotted to the teacher of a school; Only fight a wrong or falsehood when the crowd is at your back, And, till Charity repay you, shut the purse, and let her pack; At the fools who would do other let your lip in scorn be curled, `Self and Pelf', my friend, remember, that's the motto of the world. `Ne'er assail the shaky ladders Fame has from her niches hung, Lest unfriendly heels above you grind your fingers from the rung; Or the fools who idle under, envious of your fair renown, Heedless of the pain you suffer, do their worst to shake you down. At the praise of men, or censure, let your lip in scorn be curled, `Self and Pelf', my friend, remember, is the motto of the world. `Flowing founts of inspiration leave their sources parched and dry, Scalding tears of indignation sear the hearts that beat too high; Chilly waters thrown upon it drown the fire that's in the bard; And the banter of the critic hurts his heart till it grows hard. At the fame your muse may offer let your lip in scorn be curled, `Self and Pelf', my friend, remember, that's the motto of the world. `Shun the fields of love, where lightly, to a low and mocking tune, Strong and useful lives are ruined, and the broken hearts are strewn. Not a farthing is the value of the honest love you hold; Call it lust, and make it serve you! Set your heart on nought but gold. At the bliss of purer passions let your lip in scorn be curled -- `Self and Pelf', my friend, shall ever be the motto of the world.' Then he ceased and looked intently in my face, and nearer drew; But a sudden deep repugnance to his presence thrilled me through; Then I saw his face was cruel, by the look that o'er it stole, Then I felt his breath was poison, by the shuddering of my soul, Then I guessed his purpose evil, by his lip in sneering curled, And I knew he slandered mankind, by my knowledge of the world. But he vanished as a purer brighter presence gained my side -- `Heed him not! there's truth and friendship in this wondrous world,' she cried, And of those who cleave to virtue in their climbing for renown, Only they who faint or falter from the height are shaken down. At a cynic's baneful teaching let your lip in scorn be curled! `Brotherhood and Love and Honour!' is the motto for the world.'

Written by Charles Simic | White A New Version: 1980 What is that little black thing I see there in the white? Walt Whitman One Out of poverty To begin again: With the color of the bride And that of blindness, Touch what I can Of the quick, Speak and then wait, As if this light Will continue to linger On the threshold. All that is near, I no longer give it a name. Once a stone hard of hearing, Once sharpened into a knife... Now only a chill Slipping through. Enough glow to kneel by and ask To be tied to its tail When it goes marrying Its cousins, the stars. Is it a cloud? If it's a cloud it will move on. The true shape of this thought, Migrant, waning. Something seeks someone, It bears him a gift Of himself, a bit Of snow to taste, Glimpse of his own nakedness By which to imagine the face. On a late afternoon of snow In a dim badly-aired grocery, Where a door has just rung With a short, shrill echo, A little boy hands the old, Hard-faced woman Bending low over the counter, A shiny nickel for a cupcake. Now only that shine, now Only that lull abides. That your gaze Be merciful, Sister, bride Of my first hopeless insomnia. Kind nurse, show me The place of salves. Teach me the song That makes a man rise His glass at dusk Until a star dances in it. Who are you? Are you anybody A moonrock would recognize? There are words I need. They are not near men. I went searching. Is this a deathmarch? You bend me, bend me, Oh toward what flower! Little-known vowel, Noose big for us all. As strange as a shepherd In the Arctic Circle. Someone like Bo-peep. All his sheep are white And he can't get any sleep Over lost sheep. And he's got a flute Which says Bo-peep, Which says Poor boy, Take care of your snow-sheep. to A.S. Hamilton Then all's well and white, And no more than white. Illinois snowbound. Indiana with one bare tree. Michigan a storm-cloud. Wisconsin empty of men. There's a trap on the ice Laid there centuries ago. The bait is still fresh. The metal glitters as the night descends. Woe, woe, it sings from the bough. Our Lady, etc... You had me hoodwinked. I see your brand new claws. Praying, what do I betray By desiring your purity? There are old men and women, All bandaged up, waiting At the spiked, wrought-iron gate Of the Great Eye and Ear Infirmery. We haven't gone far... Fear lives there too. Five ears of my fingertips Against the white page. What do you hear? We hear holy nothing Blindfolding itself. It touched you once, twice, And tore like a stitch Out of a new wound. Two What are you up to son of a gun? I roast on my heart's dark side. What do you use as a skewer sweetheart? I use my own crooked backbone. What do you salt yourself with loverboy? I grind the words out of my spittle. And how will you know when you're done chump? When the half-moons on my fingernails set. With what knife will you carve yourself smartass? The one I hide in my tongue's black boot. Well, you can't call me a wrestler If my own dead weight has me pinned down. Well, you can't call me a cook If the pot's got me under its cover. Well, you can't call me a king if the flies hang their hats in my mouth. Well, you can't call me smart, When the rain's falling my cup's in the cupboard. Nor can you call me a saint, If I didn't err, there wouldn't be these smudges. One has to manage as best as one can. The poppies ate the sunset for supper. One has to manage as best as one can. Who stole my blue thread, the one I tied around my pinky to remember? One has to manage as best as one can. The flea I was standing on, jumped. One has to manage as best as one can. I think my head went out for a walk. One has to manage as best as one can. This is breath, only breath, Think it over midnight! A fly weighs twice as much. The struck match nods as it passes, But when I shout, Its true name sticks in my throat. It has to be cold So the breath turns white, And then mother, who's fast enough To write his life on it? A song in prison And for prisoners, Made of what the condemned Have hidden from the jailers. White--let me step aside So that the future may see you, For when this sheet is blown away, What else is left But to set the food on the table, To cut oneself a slice of bread? In an unknown year Of an algebraic century, An obscure widow Wrapped in the colors of widowhood, Met a true-blue orphan On an indeterminate street-corner. She offered him A tiny sugar cube In the hand so wizened All the lines said: fate. Do you take this line Stretching to infinity? I take this chipped tooth On which to cut it in half. Do you take this circle Bounded by a single curved line? I take this breath That it cannot capture. Then you may kiss the spot Where her bridal train last rustled. Winter can come now, The earth narrow to a ditch-- And the sky with its castles and stone lions Above the empty plains. The snow can fall... What other perennials would you plant, My prodigals, my explorers Tossing and turning in the dark For those remote, finely honed bees, The December stars? Had to get through me elsewhere. Woe to bone That stood in their way. Woe to each morsel of flesh. White ants In a white anthill. The rustle of their many feet Scurrying--tiptoing too. Gravedigger ants. Village-idiot ants. This is the last summoning. Solitude--as in the beginning. A zero burped by a bigger zero-- It's an awful licking I got. And fear--that dead letter office. And doubt--that Chinese shadow play. Does anyone still say a prayer Before going to bed? White sleeplessness. No one knows its weight. What The White Had To Say For how could anything white be distinct from or divided from whiteness? Meister Eckhart Because I am the bullet That has gone through everyone already, I thought of you long before you thought of me. Each one of you still keeps a blood-stained handkerchief In which to swaddle me, but it stays empty And even the wind won't remain in it long. Cleverly you've invented name after name for me, Mixed the riddles, garbled the proverbs, Shook you loaded dice in a tin cup, But I do not answer back even to your curses, For I am nearer to you than your breath. One sun shines on us both through a crack in the roof. A spoon brings me through the window at dawn. A plate shows me off to the four walls While with my tail I swing at the flies. But there's no tail and the flies are your thoughts. Steadily, patiently I life your arms. I arrange them in the posture of someone drowning, And yet the sea in which you are sinking, And even this night above it, is myself. Because I am the bullet That has baptized each one of your senses, Poems are made of our lusty wedding nights... The joy of words as they are written. The ear that got up at four in the morning To hear the grass grow inside a word. Still, the most beautiful riddle has no answer. I am the emptiness that tucks you in like a mockingbird's nest, The fingernail that scratched on your sleep's blackboard. Take a letter: From cloud to onion. Say: There was never any real choice. One gaunt shadowy mother wiped our asses, The same old orphanage taught us loneliness. Street-organ full of blue notes, I am the monkey dancing to your grinding-- And still you are afraid-and so, It's as if we had not budged from the beginning. Time slopes. We are falling head over heels At the speed of night. That milk tooth You left under the pillow, it's grinning. 1970-1980 This currently out-of-print edition: Copyright ©1980 Logbridge-Rhodes, Inc. An earlier version of White was first published by New Rivers Press in 1972.

Written by Charlotte Bronte | Frances SHE will not sleep, for fear of dreams, But, rising, quits her restless bed, And walks where some beclouded beams Of moonlight through the hall are shed. Obedient to the goad of grief, Her steps, now fast, now lingering slow, In varying motion seek relief From the Eumenides of woe. Wringing her hands, at intervals­ But long as mute as phantom dim­ She glides along the dusky walls, Under the black oak rafters, grim. The close air of the grated tower Stifles a heart that scarce can beat, And, though so late and lone the hour, Forth pass her wandering, faltering feet; And on the pavement, spread before The long front of the mansion grey, Her steps imprint the night-frost hoar, Which pale on grass and granite lay. Not long she stayed where misty moon And shimmering stars could on her look, But through the garden arch-way, soon Her strange and gloomy path she took. Some firs, coeval with the tower, Their straight black boughs stretched o'er her head, Unseen, beneath this sable bower, Rustled her dress and rapid tread. There was an alcove in that shade, Screening a rustic-seat and stand; Weary she sat her down and laid Her hot brow on her burning hand. To solitude and to the night, Some words she now, in murmurs, said; And, trickling through her fingers white, Some tears of misery she shed. ' God help me, in my grievous need, God help me, in my inward pain; Which cannot ask for pity's meed, Which has no license to complain; Which must be borne, yet who can bear, Hours long, days long, a constant weight­ The yoke of absolute despair, A suffering wholly desolate ? Who can for ever crush the heart, Restrain its throbbing, curb its life ? Dissemble truth with ceaseless art, With outward calm, mask inward strife ?' She waited­as for some reply; The still and cloudy night gave none; Erelong, with deep-drawn, trembling sigh, Her heavy plaint again begun. ' Unloved­I love; unwept­I weep; Grief I restrain­hope I repress: Vain is this anguish­fixed and deep; Vainer, desires and dreams of bliss. My love awakes no love again, My tears collect, and fall unfelt; My sorrow touches none with pain, My humble hopes to nothing melt. For me the universe is dumb, Stone-deaf, and blank, and wholly blind; Life I must bound, existence sum In the strait limits of one mind; That mind my own. Oh ! narrow cell; Dark­imageless­a living tomb ! There must I sleep, there wake and dwell Content, with palsy, pain, and gloom.' Again she paused; a moan of pain, A stifled sob, alone was heard; Long silence followed­then again, Her voice the stagnant midnight stirred. ' Must it be so ? Is this my fate ? Can I nor struggle, nor contend ? And am I doomed for years to wait, Watching death's lingering axe descend ? And when it falls, and when I die, What follows ? Vacant nothingness ? The blank of lost identity ? Erasure both of pain and bliss ? I've heard of heaven­I would believe; For if this earth indeed be all, Who longest lives may deepest grieve, Most blest, whom sorrows soonest call. Oh ! leaving disappointment here, Will man find hope on yonder coast ? Hope, which, on earth, shines never clear, And oft in clouds is wholly lost. Will he hope's source of light behold, Fruition's spring, where doubts expire, And drink, in waves of living gold, Contentment, full, for long desire ? Will he find bliss, which here he dreamed ? Rest, which was weariness on earth ? Knowledge, which, if o'er life it beamed, Served but to prove it void of worth ? Will he find love without lust's leaven, Love fearless, tearless, perfect, pure, To all with equal bounty given, In all, unfeigned, unfailing, sure ? Will he, from penal sufferings free, Released from shroud and wormy clod, All calm and glorious, rise and see Creation's Sire­Existence' God ? Then, glancing back on Time's brief woes, Will he behold them, fading, fly; Swept from Eternity's repose, Like sullying cloud, from pure blue sky ? If so­endure, my weary frame; And when thy anguish strikes too deep, And when all troubled burns life's flame, Think of the quiet, final sleep; Think of the glorious waking-hour, Which will not dawn on grief and tears, But on a ransomed spirit's power, Certain, and free from mortal fears. Seek now thy couch, and lie till morn, Then from thy chamber, calm, descend, With mind nor tossed, nor anguish-torn, But tranquil, fixed, to wait the end. And when thy opening eyes shall see Mementos, on the chamber wall, Of one who has forgotten thee, Shed not the tear of acrid gall. The tear which, welling from the heart, Burns where its drop corrosive falls, And makes each nerve, in torture, start, At feelings it too well recalls: When the sweet hope of being loved, Threw Eden sunshine on life's way; When every sense and feeling proved Expectancy of brightest day. When the hand trembled to receive A thrilling clasp, which seemed so near, And the heart ventured to believe, Another heart esteemed it dear. When words, half love, all tenderness, Were hourly heard, as hourly spoken, When the long, sunny days of bliss, Only by moonlight nights were broken. Till drop by drop, the cup of joy Filled full, with purple light, was glowing, And Faith, which watched it, sparkling high, Still never dreamt the overflowing. It fell not with a sudden crashing, It poured not out like open sluice; No, sparkling still, and redly flashing, Drained, drop by drop, the generous juice. I saw it sink, and strove to taste it, My eager lips approached the brim; The movement only seemed to waste it, It sank to dregs, all harsh and dim. These I have drank, and they for ever Have poisoned life and love for me; A draught from Sodom's lake could never More fiery, salt, and bitter, be. Oh ! Love was all a thin illusion; Joy, but the desert's flying stream; And, glancing back on long delusion, My memory grasps a hollow dream. Yet, whence that wondrous change of feeling, I never knew, and cannot learn, Nor why my lover's eye, congealing, Grew cold, and clouded, proud, and stern. Nor wherefore, friendship's forms forgetting, He careless left, and cool withdrew; Nor spoke of grief, nor fond regretting, Nor even one glance of comfort threw. And neither word nor token sending, Of kindness, since the parting day, His course, for distant regions bending, Went, self-contained and calm, away. Oh, bitter, blighting, keen sensation, Which will not weaken, cannot die, Hasten thy work of desolation, And let my tortured spirit fly ! Vain as the passing gale, my crying; Though lightning-struck, I must live on; I know, at heart, there is no dying Of love, and ruined hope, alone. Still strong, and young, and warm with vigour, Though scathed, I long shall greenly grow, And many a storm of wildest rigour Shall yet break o'er my shivered bough. Rebellious now to blank inertion, My unused strength demands a task; Travel, and toil, and full exertion, Are the last, only boon I ask. Whence, then, this vain and barren dreaming Of death, and dubious life to come ? I see a nearer beacon gleaming Over dejection's sea of gloom. The very wildness of my sorrow Tells me I yet have innate force; My track of life has been too narrow, Effort shall trace a broader course. The world is not in yonder tower, Earth is not prisoned in that room, 'Mid whose dark pannels, hour by hour, I've sat, the slave and prey of gloom. One feeling­turned to utter anguish, Is not my being's only aim; When, lorn and loveless, life will languish, But courage can revive the flame. He, when he left me, went a roving To sunny climes, beyond the sea; And I, the weight of woe removing, Am free and fetterless as he. New scenes, new language, skies less clouded, May once more wake the wish to live; Strange, foreign towns, astir, and crowded, New pictures to the mind may give. New forms and faces, passing ever, May hide the one I still retain, Defined, and fixed, and fading never, Stamped deep on vision, heart, and brain. And we might meet­time may have changed him; Chance may reveal the mystery, The secret influence which estranged him; Love may restore him yet to me. False thought­false hope­in scorn be banished ! I am not loved­nor loved have been; Recall not, then, the dreams scarce vanished, Traitors ! mislead me not again ! To words like yours I bid defiance, 'Tis such my mental wreck have made; Of God alone, and self-reliance, I ask for solace­hope for aid. Morn comes­and ere meridian glory O'er these, my natal woods, shall smile, Both lonely wood and mansion hoary I'll leave behind, full many a mile.

Written by Ralph Waldo Emerson | The Humble-Bee BURLY dozing humble-bee Where thou art is clime for me. Let them sail for Porto Rique Far-off heats through seas to seek; I will follow thee alone 5 Thou animated torrid-zone! Zigzag steerer desert cheerer Let me chase thy waving lines; Keep me nearer me thy hearer Singing over shrubs and vines. 10 Insect lover of the sun Joy of thy dominion! Sailor of the atmosphere; Swimmer through the waves of air; Voyager of light and noon; 15 Epicurean of June; Wait I prithee till I come Within earshot of thy hum ¡ª All without is martyrdom. When the south wind in May days 20 With a net of shining haze Silvers the horizon wall And with softness touching all Tints the human countenance With a color of romance 25 And infusing subtle heats Turns the sod to violets Thou in sunny solitudes Rover of the underwoods The green silence dost displace 30 With thy mellow breezy bass. Hot midsummer's petted crone Sweet to me thy drowsy tone Tells of countless sunny hours Long days and solid banks of flowers; 35 Of gulfs of sweetness without bound In Indian wildernesses found; Of Syrian peace immortal leisure Firmest cheer and bird-like pleasure. Aught unsavory or unclean 40 Hath my insect never seen; But violets and bilberry bells Maple-sap and daffodels Grass with green flag half-mast high Succory to match the sky 45 Columbine with horn of honey Scented fern and agrimony Clover catchfly adder's-tongue And brier-roses dwelt among; All beside was unknown waste 50 All was picture as he passed. Wiser far than human seer blue-breeched philosopher! Seeing only what is fair Sipping only what is sweet 55 Thou dost mock at fate and care Leave the chaff and take the wheat. When the fierce northwestern blast Cools sea and land so far and fast Thou already slumberest deep; 60 Woe and want thou canst outsleep; Want and woe which torture us Thy sleep makes ridiculous.