The Snowdrop In The Snow
O full of Faith! The Earth is rock,-the Heaven
The dome of a great palace all of ice,
Russ-built. Dull light distils through frozen skies
Thickened and gross. Cold Fancy droops her wing,
And cannot range. In winding-sheets of snow
Lies every thought of any pleasant thing.
I have forgotten the green earth; my soul
Deflowered, and lost to every summer hope,
Sad sitteth on an iceberg at the Pole;
My heart assumes the landscape of mine eyes
Moveless and white, chill blanched with hoarest rime;
The Sun himself is heavy and lacks cheer
Or on the eastern hill or western slope;
The world without seems far and long ago;
To silent woods stark famished winds have driven
The last lean robin-gibbering winds of fear!
Thou only darest to believe in spring,
Thou only smilest, Lady of the Time!
Even as the stars come up out of the sea
Thou risest from the Earth. How is it down
In the dark depths? Should I delve there, O Flower,
For beauty? Shall I find the summer there
Met manifold, as in an ark of peace?
And Thou, a lone white Dove, art thou sent forth
Upon the winter deluge? It shall cease,
But not for thee-pierced by the ruthless North
And spent with the Evangel. In what hour
The flood abates thou wilt have closed thy wings
For ever. When the happy living things
Of the old world come forth upon the new
I know my heart shall miss thee; and the dew
Of summer twilights shall shed tears for me
-Tears liker thee, ah, purest! than mine own-
Upon thy vestal grave, O vainly fair!
Thou should'st have noble destiny, who, like
A Prophet, art shut out from kind and kin:
Who on the winter silence comest in
A still small voice. Pale Hermit of the Year,
Flower of the Wilderness! oh, not for thee
The jocund playmates of the maiden spring.
For when she danceth forth with cymballed feet,
Waking a-sudden with great welcoming,
Each calling each, they burst from hill to dell
In answering music. But thou art a bell,
A passing bell, snow-muffled, dim and sweet.
As is the Poet to his fellow-men,
So mid thy drifting snows, O Snowdrop, Thou.
Gifted, in sooth, beyond them, but no less
A snowdrop. And thou shalt complete his lot
And bloom as fair as now when they are not.
Thou art the wonder of the seasons, O
First-born of Beauty. As the Angel near
Gazed on that first of living things which, when
The blast that ruled since Chaos o'er the sere
Leaves of primeval Palms did sweep the plain,
Clung to the new-made sod and would not drive,
So gaze I upon thee amid the reign
Of Winter. And because thou livest, I live.
And art thou happy in thy loneliness?
Oh couldst thou hear the shouting of the floods,
Oh couldst thou know the stir among the trees
When-as the herald-voice of breeze on breeze
Proclaims the marriage pageant of the Spring
Advancing from the South-each hurries on
His wedding-garment, and the love-chimes ring
Thro' nuptial valleys! No, serene and lone,
I will not flush thy cheek with joys like these.
Songs for the rosy morning; at grey prime
To hang the head and pray. Thou doest well.
I will not tell thee of the bridal train.
No; let thy Moonlight die before their day
A Nun among the Maidens, thou and they.
Each hath some fond sweet office that doth strike
One of our trembling heartstrings musical.
Is not the hawthorn for the Queen of May?
And cuckoo-flowers for whom the cuckoo's voice
Hails, like an answering sister, to the woods?
Is not the maiden blushing in the rose?
Shall not the babe and buttercup rejoice,
Twins in one meadow! Are not violets all
By name or nature for the breast of Dames?
For them the primrose, pale as star of prime,
For them the wind-flower, trembling to a sigh,
For them the dew stands in the eyes of day
That blink in April on the daisied lea?
Like them they flourish and like them they fade,
And live beloved and loving. But for thee-
For such a bevy how art thou arrayed,
Flower of the Tempests? What hast thou with them?
Thou shalt be pearl unto a diadem
Which the Heavens jewel. They shall deck the brows
Of joy and wither there. But thou shalt be
A Martyr's garland. Thou who, undismayed,
To thy spring dreams art true amid the snows
As he to better dreams amid the flames.
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
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Related quotes
To Mary
If I had thought thou couldst have died,
I might not weep for thee;
But I forgot, when by thy side,
That thou couldst mortal be:
It never through my mind had past
The time would e'er be o'er,
And I on thee should look my last,
And thou shouldst smile no more!
And still upon that face I look,
And think 'twill smile again;
And still the thought I will not brook,
That I must look in vain.
But when I speak—thou dost not say
What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;
And now I feel, as well I may,
Sweet Mary, thou art dead!
If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art,
All cold and all serene—
I still might press thy silent heart,
And where thy smiles have been.
While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,
Thou seemest still mine own;
But there—I lay thee in thy grave,
And I am now alone!
I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me;
And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart
In thinking too of thee:
Yet there was round thee such a dawn
Of light ne'er seen before,
As fancy never could have drawn,
And never can restore!
poem by Charles Wolfe
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Sonnet XLI: When Men Shall Find
When men shall find thy flower, thy glory pass,
And thou with carefull brow sitting alone,
Received hast this message from thy glass,
That tells thee truth, and says that all is gone,
Fresh shalt thou see in me the wounds thou madest;
Though spent thy flame, in me the heat remaining.
I that have lov'd thee thus before thou fadest,
My faith shall wax, when thou art in thy waning.
The world shall find this miracle in me,
That fire can burn, when all the matter's spent;
Then what my faith hath been thy self shalt see,
And that thou wast unkind thou mayst repent.
Thou mayst repent, that thou hast scorn'd my tears,
When Winter snows upon thy golden hairs.
poem by Samuel Daniel
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Delia XXXIII: When men shall find thy flower, thy glory, pa
XXXIII
When men shall find thy flower, thy glory, pass,
And thou with careful brow sitting alone
Received hast this message from thy glass,
That tells thee truth and says that all is gone:
Fresh shalt thou see in me the wounds thou madest,
Though spent thy flame, in me the heat remaining;
I that have lov'd thee thus before thou fadest,
My faith shall wax when thou art in thy waning.
The world shall find this miracle in me,
That fire can burn when all the matter's spent;
Then what my faith hath been thyself shall see,
And that thou wast unkind thou mayst repent.
Thou mayst repent that thou hast scorn'd my tears,
When winter snows upon thy golden hairs.
poem by Samuel Daniel
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They Shall Not Know
When thou art happy, thou dear heart of pleasure,
Because men love thee and the feasts are spread,
And Fortune in thy lap has poured her treasure,
And Spring is there and roses crown thy head,
Then think of one who loved thee for his woe,
And, if thou sigh
With others by,
They shall not know.
When thou art silent in thy day of trouble,
Because fools vex and thou hast rivals found
And love has played thee falser than a bubble
And memory stings and grief is as a wound,
Then think of one whose hand first soothed thy brow,
And, if a smile
Thy tears beguile,
These shall not know.
When all is ended, thou pale ghost of sorrow,
And time's last flower is gathered from the grove,
And yesterday to thee is as to--morrow
And there is none to speak to thee of love,
Then sing these songs one made thee long ago,
And men shall swear
Thou still art fair--
Yet shall not know.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Sonnet: On Calumny
Be thou a saint and yet the world won't spare;
Be thou most chaste and yet, most tongues will talk;
Be thou a crook and yet people don't care;
Be thou a tiger yet, some men will stalk.
Be thou cruel and yet the world will praise;
Be thou too kind and yet the world will taunt;
Be thou rigid and yet the world can't face;
Be thou timid and yet the world will haunt;
Be thou selfish and yet the world loves thee;
Be thou selfless and yet the world thee hates;
Be thou goodly and yet you are not free;
Be thou evil and yet the world thee mates.
Be thou yourself and yet the world finds fault;
Be thou anything, yet the world will vault.
poem by John Celes
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O Lord My God! - -Carl Boberg
O Lord my God!
When I in awesome wonder
consider all the worlds
Thy hands have made
I see the stars,
I hear the rolling thunder,
The power throughout the universe displayed
Then sings my soul, my Savior God to Thee;
How great Thou art, how great thou art!
Then sings my soul, my Savior God to Thee,
How great Thou art, how great Thou art!
When through the woods and forest glades I wander
And hear the birds sing sweetly in the trees;
When I look down from lofty mountain grandeur
And hear the brook and feel the geltle breeze;
Then sings my soul, my Savior God to Thee;
How great Thou art, how great thou art!
Then sings my soul, my Savior God to Thee,
How great Thou art, how great Thou art!
And when I think that God, His Son not sparing,
Sent Him to die, I scarce can take it in; -
That on the cross my burden gladly bearing,
He bled to take away my sin; -
Then sings my soul, my Savior God to Thee;
How great Thou art, how great thou art!
Then sings my soul, my Savior God to Thee,
How great Thou art, how great Thou art!
When Christ shall come with shout of acclamation
And take me home, what joy shall fill my heart!
Then I shall bow in humble adoration
And there proclaim, My God, How great Thou art!
Then sings my soul, my Savior God to Thee;
How great Thou art, how great thou art!
Then sings my soul, my Savior God to Thee,
How great Thou art, how great Thou art!
poem by Sangnam Nam
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Thy Better Self
I AM thy other self, what thou wilt be,
When thou art I, the one seest now;
In finding thy true self thou wilt find me,
The springing blade, where now thou dost but plough.
I am thy neighbor, a new house I've built,
Which thou as yet hast never entered in;
I come to call thee; come in when thou wilt,
The feast is always ready to begin.
Thou should'st love me, as thou dost love thyself,
For I am but another self beside;
To show thee him thou lov'st in better health,
What thou would'st be, when thou to him hast died;
Then visit me, I make thee many a call;
Nor live I near to thee alone, but all.
poem by Jones Very
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Specula
When He appoints to meet thee, go thou forth—
It matters not
If south or north,
Bleak waste or sunny plot.
Nor think, if haply He thou seek’st be late,
He does thee wrong.
To stile or gate
Lean thou thy head, and long!
It may be that to spy thee He is mounting
Upon a tower,
Or in thy counting
Thou hast mista’en the hour.
But, if He comes not, neither do thou go
Till Vesper chime.
Belike thou then shalt know
He hath been with thee all the time.
poem by Thomas Edward Brown
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Be Thou My Vision
Be thou my vision, oh lord of my heart
Nought be all else to me, save that thy art
Thou my best thought in the day and the night
Waking or sleeping, thou presence my light
Be thou my wisdom, be thou my true word
I ever with thee and thou with me lord
Thou my great father and I thy true son
Thou in me dwelling and I with thee one
Be thou my breastplate, my sword for the fight
Be thou my armour and be thou my might
Thou my soul shelter, and thy my high tower
Raise thou me heavenwards, oh power of my power
Riches I need not, nor mans empty praise
Thou mine inheritance through all of my days
Thou and thou only though first in my heart
High king of heaven my treasure thou art
Oh high king of heaven, when battle is done
Grant heavens joy to me, bright heaven sun
Christ of my own heart, whatever befall
Still be my vision, though ruler of all
Da, da, da, da, da, etc.
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Grave. From The Anglo-Saxon
For thee was a house built
Ere thou wast born,
For thee was a mould meant
Ere thou of mother camest.
But it is not made ready,
Nor its depth measured,
Nor is it seen
How long it shall be.
Now I bring thee
Where thou shalt be;
Now I shall measure thee,
And the mould afterwards.
Thy house is not
Highly timbered,
It is unhigh and low;
When thou art therein,
The heel-ways are low,
The side-ways unhigh.
The roof is built
Thy breast full nigh,
So thou shalt in mould
Dwell full cold,
Dimly and dark.
Doorless is that house,
And dark it is within;
There thou art fast detained
And Death hath the key.
Loathsome is that earth-house,
And grim within to dwell.
There thou shalt dwell,
And worms shall divide thee.
Thus thou art laid,
And leavest thy friends
Thou hast no friend,
Who will come to thee,
Who will ever see
How that house pleaseth thee;
Who will ever open
The door for thee,
And descend for thee;
For soon thou art loathsome
And hateful to see.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Wilt Thou Take Me For Thy Slave?
Wilt thou take me for thy slave,
With my folly and my love?
Wilt thou take me for the bondsman of thy pride?
Thou who dearer art to me than all the world beside;
For I love thee as no other man can love.
Wilt thou take me to thy soul,
For the truth which thou shalt prove?
Wilt thou clothe me with the riches of thy care?
Thou who dearer art to me than gold and jewels rare;
For I love thee as no other man can love.
Wilt thou take me for thy king,
While the sun and stars shall move?
Wilt thou pay me back the homage I have given?
Oh thou dearer unto me than sun and stars and heaven!
For I love thee as no other man can love.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Intrigue
THOU art my love
And thou art the peace of sundown
When the blue shadows soothe
And the grasses and the leaves sleep
To the song of the little brooks
Woe is me.
Thou art my love,
And thou art a storm
That breaks black in the sky
And, sweeping headlong,
Drenches and cowers each tree
And at the panting end
There is no sound
Save the melancholy cry of a single owl
Woe is me!
Thou art my love
And thou art a tinsel thing
And I in my play
Broke thee easily
And from the little fragments
Arose my long sorrow
Woe is me.
Thou art my love
And thou art a weary violet
Drooping from sun-caresses.
Answering mine carelessly
Woe is me.
Thou art my love
And thou art the ashes of other men's love
And I bury my face in these ashes
And I love them
Woe is me.
Thou art my love
And thou art the beard
On another man's face
Woe is me.
Thou art my love
And thou art a temple
And in this temple is an altar
And on this altar is my heart
Woe is me.
Thou art my love
And thou art a wretch.
Let these sacred love-lies choke thee
For I am come to where I know your lies as truth
And your truth as lies
Woe is me.
Thou art my love
And thou art a priestess
And in thy hand is a bloody dagger
And my doom comes to me surely
Woe is me.
Thou art my love
And thou art a skull with ruby eyes
And I love thee
Woe is me.
Thou art my love
And I doubt thee
And if peace came with my murder
Then would I murder
Woe is me.
Thou art my love
And thou art death
Aye, thou art death
Black and yet black
But I love thee
I love thee
Woe, welcome woe, to me.
poem by Stephen Crane
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Written at Florence
O WORLD, in very truth thou art too young;
When wilt thou learn to wear the garb of age?
World, with thy covering of yellow flowers,
Hast thou forgot what generations sprung
Out of thy loins and loved thee and are gone?
Hast thou no place in all their heritage
Where thou dost only weep, that I may come
Nor fear the mockery of thy yellow flowers?
O world, in very truth thou art too young.
The heroic wealth of passionate emprize
Built thee fair cities for thy naked plains:
How hast thou set thy summer growth among
The broken stones which were their palaces!
Hast thou forgot the darkness where he lies
Who made thee beautiful, or have thy bees
Found out his grave to build their honeycombs?
O world, in very truth thou art too young:
They gave thee love who measured out thy skies,
And, when they found for thee another star,
Who made a festival and straightway hung
The jewel on thy neck. O merry world,
Hast thou forgot the glory of those eyes
Which first look'd love in thine? Thou hast not furl'd
One banner of thy bridal car for them.
O world, in very truth thou art too young.
There was a voice which sang about thy spring,
Till winter froze the sweetness of his lips,
And lo, the worms had hardly left his tongue
Before thy nightingales were come again.
O world, what courage hast thou thus to sing?
Say, has thy merriment no secret pain,
No sudden weariness that thou art young?
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Written At Sea
What is my quarrel with thee, beautiful sea,
That thus I cannot love thy waves or thee,
Or hear thy voice but it tormenteth me?
Why do I hate thee, who art beautiful
Beyond all beauty, when the nights are cool,
And the stars fade because the moon is full?
Why do I hate thee? Thou art new and young,
And life is thine for loving, and thy tongue
Hath tones that I have known and loved and sung.
Thou hast a smile which would my smiling greet;
Thy brave heart beateth as my own doth beat,
And thou hast tears which should be true and sweet.
Thou art a creature, strong and fair and brave,
Such as I might have given the world to have
And love and cherish;--and thou art my slave.
I have my home in thee. Thy arms enfold
Me all night long, and I am rocked and rolled,
And thou art never weary of thy hold.
Thou art a woman in thy constancy,
And worthy better love than mine could be;
And yet, behold, I cannot suffer thee.
If thou wert dumb; if thou wert like the sky,
Which has not learned to speak our misery
In any voice less rude than the wind's cry;
If thou wert wholly young and didst not know
The secret of our ancient human woe,
Or if thou knewest it wholly as I know;
Or yet if thou wert old with all these years;
If thou wert dull to hopes and loves and fears;
If thou wert blind and couldst not see our tears;
If thou wert bounded by some rocky shore,
And hadst not given thyself thus wholly o'er
To our poor single selves with all thy store;
If thou wert not in thy immensity,
A single circle circling with the sky,
Where we must still be centres changelessly;
If thou wert other than thou art; alas,
If thou wert not of water, but a mass
Of formless earth, a waveless plain of grass;
If thou wert shapeless as the mountains are;
If thou wert clad in some discordant wear;
If thou wert not so blue and trim and fair;
If thou wert decked with towns and villages;
If there was heard, across the silent seas,
The music of church bells upon the breeze;
If thou wert this; or if thou wert not near,
But I could only sit apart and hear
The beating of thy waves, and find it drear,
But wild and quite unknown, and far from me;
Sea, if thou couldst no longer be the sea,
Then I could love thee as thou lovest me.
If thou wouldst have me love thee, beautiful sea,
Build up a wall of dark 'twixt thee and me;
Let me not see thee; call the night to thee.
League with the winds; rise up, and send them driven
To roll mad clouds about thy back at even.
Make thee a desolation of the heaven.
Thou shouldst compel me, with thy angry voice,
To choose 'twixt death and thee; and, at the choice,
If my cheek grew not pale, thou might'st rejoice,
And I might love thee, oh thou monstrous sea;
But now I cannot love thy waves or thee,
Or bear thy beauty in my misery.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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O Heart of Spring
O HEART of Spring!
Spirit of light and love and joyous day,
So soon to faint beneath the fiery Summer:
Still smiles the Earth, eager for thee alway:
Welcome art thou, soever short thy stay,
Thou bold, thou blithe newcomer!
Whither, O whither this thy journeying,
O heart of Spring?
O heart of Spring!
After the stormy days of Winter’s reign,
When the keen winds their last lament are sighing,
The Sun shall raise thee up to life again:
In thy dim death thou shalt not suffer pain:
Surely thou dost not fear this quiet dying?
Whither, O whither this thy journeying,
O heart of Spring?
O heart of Spring!
Youth’s emblem, ancient and unchanging light,
Uncomprehended, unconsumed, still burning:
Oh that we could, as thou, rise from the night
To find a world of blossoms lilac-white,
And long-winged swallows unafraid returning…
Whither, O whither this thy journeying,
O heart of Spring?
poem by John Shaw Neilson
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To Her Sea-Faring Lover
SHALL I thus ever long, and be no whit the neare?
And shall I still complain to thee, the which me will not hear?
Alas! say nay! say nay! and be no more so dumb,
But open thou thy manly mouth and say that thou wilt come:
Whereby my heart may think, although I see not thee,
That thou wilt come--thy word so sware--if thou a live man be.
The roaring hugy waves they threaten my poor ghost,
And toss thee up and down the seas in danger to be lost.
Shall they not make me fear that they have swallowed thee?
--But as thou art most sure alive, so wilt thou come to me.
Whereby I shall go see thy ship ride on the strand,
And think and say Lo where he comes and Sure here will he land:
And then I shall lift up to thee my little hand,
And thou shalt think thine heart in ease, in health to see me stand.
And if thou come indeed (as Christ thee send to do!)
Those arms which miss thee now shall then embrace [and hold] thee too:
Each vein to every joint the lively blood shall spread
Which now for want of thy glad sight doth show full pale and dead.
But if thou slip thy troth, and do not come at all,
As minutes in the clock do strike so call for death I shall:
To please both thy false heart and rid myself from woe,
That rather had to die in troth than live forsaken so!
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Of the Cuckoo
Thou booby, say'st thou nothing but cuckoo?
The robin and the wren can thee outdo.
They to us play thoróugh their little throats,
Not one, but sundry pretty tuneful notes.
But thou hast fellows, some like thee can do
Little but suck our eggs, and sing cuckoo.
Thy notes do not first welcome in our spring,
Not dost thou its first tokens to us bring.
Birds less than thee by far, like prophets, do
Tell us 'tis coming, though not by cuckoo.
Nor dost thou summer have away with thee,
Though thou a yawling, bawling cuckoo be.
When thou dost cease among us to appear,
Then doth our harvest bravely crown our year.
But thou hast fellows, some like thee can do
Little but suck our eggs, and sing cuckoo.
Since cuckoos forward not our early spring,
Nor help with notes to bring our harvest in:
And since while here she only makes a noise,
So pleasing unto none as girls and boys,
The formalist we may compare her to,
For he doth suck our eggs, and sing cuckoo.
poem by John Bunyan
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How Great Thou Art
O Lord my God
When I in awesome wonder
Consider all the worlds
They hands have made
I see the stars
I hear the rollin' thunder
Thy power throughout
The universe displayed.
Then sings my soul
My Savior God, to Thee,
How great Thou art
How great Thou art
Then sings my soul
My Savior God, to Thee
How great Thou art
How great Thou art!
When Christ shall come
With shouts of acclamation
And take me home
What joy shall fill my heart
Then I shall bow
In humble adoration
And there proclaim,
''My God, how great Thou art!''
Then sings my soul
My Savior God, to Thee,
How great Thou art
How great Thou art
Then sings my soul
My Savior God, to Thee
How great Thou art
How great Thou art!
How great Thou art
How great Thou art!...
song performed by by Randy Travis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Sunbeam
Thou art no lingerer in monarch's hall,
A joy thou art, and a wealth to all!
A bearer of hope unto land and sea“
Sunbeam! what gift hath the world like thee?
Thou art walking the billows, and ocean smiles;
Thou hast touch'd with glory his thousand isles;
Thou hast lit up the ships, and the feathery foam,
And gladden'd the sailor, like words from home.
To the solemn depths of the forest shades,
Thou art streaming on thro' their green arcades,
And the quivering leaves that have caught thy glow,
Like fire-flies glance to the pools below.
I look'd on the mountains,“a vapour lay
Folding their heights in its dark array:
Thou brakest forth,“and the mist became
A crown and a mantle of living flame.
I look'd on the peasant's lowly cot,“
Something of sadness had wrapt the spot;“
But a gleam of thee on its lattice fell,
And it laugh'd into beauty at that bright spell.
To the earth's wild places a guest thou art,
Flushing the waste like the rose's heart;
And thou scornest not from thy pomp to shed
A tender smile on the ruin's head.
Thou tak'st thro' the dim church-aisle thy way,
And its pillars from twilight flash forth to day,
And its high, pale tombs, with their trophies old,
Are bath'd in a flood as of molten gold.
And thou turnest not from the humblest grave,
Where a flower to the sighing winds may wave;
Thou scatterest its gloom like the dreams of rest,
Thou sleepest in love on its grassy breast.
Sunbeam of summer! oh! what is like thee?
Hope of the wilderness, joy of the sea!“
One thing is like thee to mortals given,
The faith touching all things with hues of Heaven!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Song: Rarely, rarely, comest thou
Rarely, rarely, comest thou,
Spirit of Delight!
Wherefore hast thou left me now
Many a day and night?
Many a weary night and day
'Tis since thou are fled away.
How shall ever one like me
Win thee back again?
With the joyous and the free
Thou wilt scoff at pain.
Spirit false! thou hast forgot
All but those who need thee not.
As a lizard with the shade
Of a trembling leaf,
Thou with sorrow art dismay'd;
Even the sighs of grief
Reproach thee, that thou art not near,
And reproach thou wilt not hear.
Let me set my mournful ditty
To a merry measure;
Thou wilt never come for pity,
Thou wilt come for pleasure;
Pity then will cut away
Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay.
I love all that thou lovest,
Spirit of Delight!
The fresh Earth in new leaves dress'd,
And the starry night;
Autumn evening, and the morn
When the golden mists are born.
I love snow, and all the forms
Of the radiant frost;
I love waves, and winds, and storms,
Everything almost
Which is Nature's, and may be
Untainted by man's misery.
I love tranquil solitude,
And such society
As is quiet, wise, and good;
Between thee and me
What difference? but thou dost possess
The things I seek, not love them less.
I love Love--though he has wings,
And like light can flee,
But above all other things,
Spirit, I love thee--
Thou art love and life! Oh come,
Make once more my heart thy home.
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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