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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=512747" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Dejection: An Ode</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon,<br> With the old Moon in her arms ;<br> And I fear, I fear, My Master dear !<br> We shall have a deadly storm.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence<br>--------------------------------------- ------------------------------------</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I<br> <br>Well ! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made<br> The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence,<br> This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence<br>Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade<br>Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes,<br>Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and rakes<br>Upon the strings of this Æolian lute,<br> [Image]Which better far were mute.<br> For lo ! the New-moon winter-bright !<br> And overspread with phantom light,<br> (With swimming phantom light o'erspread<br> But rimmed and circled by a silver thread)<br>I see the old Moon in her lap, foretelling<br> The coming-on of rain and squally blast.<br>And oh ! that even now the gust were swelling,<br> And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast !<br>Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed,<br> [Image]And sent my soul abroad,<br>Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give,<br>Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live !</div><div style="margin:10px 0">II</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear,<br> A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief,<br> Which finds no natural outlet, no relief,<br> [Image]In word, or sigh, or tear--<br> O Lady ! in this wan and heartless mood,<br> To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd,<br> All this long eve, so balmy and serene,<br> Have I been gazing on the western sky,<br> And its peculiar tint of yellow green :<br> And still I gaze--and with how blank an eye !<br> And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars,<br> That give away their motion to the stars ;<br> Those stars, that glide behind them or between,<br> Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seen :<br> Yon crescent Moon, as fixed as if it grew<br> In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue ;<br> I see them all so excellently fair,<br> I see, not feel, how beautiful they are !</div><div style="margin:10px 0">III</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> [Image]My genial spirits fail ;<br> [Image]And what can these avail<br>To lift the smothering weight from off my breast ?<br> [Image]It were a vain endeavour,<br> [Image]Though I should gaze for ever<br>On that green light that lingers in the west :<br>I may not hope from outward forms to win<br>The passion and the life, whose fountains are within.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">IV</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O Lady ! we receive but what we give,<br>And in our life alone does Nature live :<br>Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud !<br> And would we aught behold, of higher worth,<br>Than that inanimate cold world allowed<br>To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd,<br> Ah ! from the soul itself must issue forth<br>A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud<br> [Image]Enveloping the Earth--<br>And from the soul itself must there be sent<br> A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth,<br>Of all sweet sounds the life and element !</div><div style="margin:10px 0">V</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O pure of heart ! thou need'st not ask of me<br>What this strong music in the soul may be !<br>What, and wherein it doth exist,<br>This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist,<br>This beautiful and beauty-making power.<br> Joy, virtuous Lady ! Joy that ne'er was given,<br>Save to the pure, and in their purest hour,<br>Life, and Life's effluence, cloud at once and shower,<br>Joy, Lady ! is the spirit and the power,<br>Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower<br> A new Earth and new Heaven,<br>Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud--<br>Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud--<br> [Image]We in ourselves rejoice !<br>And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight,<br> All melodies the echoes of that voice,<br>All colours a suffusion from that light.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">VI</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There was a time when, though my path was rough,<br> This joy within me dallied with distress,<br>And all misfortunes were but as the stuff<br> Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness :<br>For hope grew round me, like the twining vine,<br>And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine.<br>But now afflictions bow me down to earth :<br>Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth ;<br> [Image]But oh ! each visitation<br>Suspends what nature gave me at my birth,<br> My shaping spirit of Imagination.<br>For not to think of what I needs must feel,<br> But to be still and patient, all I can ;<br>And haply by abstruse research to steal<br> From my own nature all the natural man--<br> This was my sole resource, my only plan :<br>Till that which suits a part infects the whole,<br>And now is almost grown the habit of my soul.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">VII</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind,<br> [Image]Reality's dark dream !<br>I turn from you, and listen to the wind,<br> Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream<br>Of agony by torture lengthened out<br>That lute sent forth ! Thou Wind, that rav'st without,<br> Bare crag, or mountain-tairn, or blasted tree,<br>Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb,<br>Or lonely house, long held the witches' home,<br> Methinks were fitter instruments for thee,<br>Mad Lutanist ! who in this month of showers,<br>Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flowers,<br>Mak'st Devils' yule, with worse than wintry song,<br>The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among.<br> Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds !<br>Thou mighty Poet, e'en to frenzy bold !<br> [Image]What tell'st thou now about ?<br> [Image]'Tis of the rushing of an host in rout,<br> With groans, of trampled men, with smarting wounds--<br>At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold !<br>But hush ! there is a pause of deepest silence !<br> And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd,<br>With groans, and tremulous shudderings--all is over--<br> It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud !<br> [Image]A tale of less affright,<br> [Image]And tempered with delight,<br>As Otway's self had framed the tender lay,--<br> [Image][Image]'Tis of a little child<br> [Image][Image]Upon a lonesome wild,<br>Not far from home, but she hath lost her way :<br>And now moans low in bitter grief and fear,<br>And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">VIII</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep :<br>Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep !<br>Visit her, gentle Sleep ! with wings of healing,<br> And may this storm be but a mountain-birth,<br>May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling,<br> Silent as though they watched the sleeping Earth !<br> [Image]With light heart may she rise,<br> [Image]Gay fancy, cheerful eyes,<br> Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice ;<br>To her may all things live, from the pole to pole,<br>Their life the eddying of her living soul !<br> O simple spirit, guided from above,<br>Dear Lady ! friend devoutest of my choice,<br>Thus may'st thou ever, evermore rejoice.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Samuel+Taylor+Coleridge">Samuel Taylor Coleridge</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=512747" data-title="Dejection: An Ode de Samuel Taylor Coleridge" data-description="Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon,
 With the old Moon in her arms ;
 And I fear, I fear, My Master dear !
 We shall have a deadly storm.

Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence
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