HOW graciously thou wear'st the yoke
Of use that does not fail !
The grasses, like an anchored smoke,
Ride in the bending gale;
This knoll is snowed with blosmy manna,
And fire-dropt as a seraph's mail.
Here every eve thou stretchest out
And marvellously bring'st about
Newly an olden thing;
Nor ever through like-ordered heaven
Moves largely thy grave progressing.
Here every eve thou goest down
Behind the self-same hill,
Nor ever twice alike go'st down
Behind the self-same hill;
Nor like-ways is one flame-sopped flower
Possessed with glory past its will.
Not twice alike ! I am not blind,
My sight is live to see;
And yet I do complain of thy
O Sun ! I ask thee less or more,
Change not at ail, or utterly!
O give me unprevisioned new,
Or give to change reprieve !
For new in me is olden too,
That I for sameness grieve.
O no wers ! O grasses ! be but once
The grass and flower of yester-eve !
Wonder and sadness are the lot
Of change: thou yield'st mine eyes
Grief of vicissitude, but not
Its pénétrant surprise.
Burthens my spirit and the skies.
O altered joy, all joyed of yore,
Plodding in unconned ways !
O grief grieved out, and yet once more
A dull, new, staled amaze !
I dream, and all was dreamed before,
Or dream I so? the dreamer says.