Classic Poem

My bower is in a green dell
Amid the hills so high
That angels, from their huge swell,
Might step into the sky.

For silence or for sorrow,
For meditation made,
Ev'n joy itself must borrow
A sadness from its shade.

For all adown its steep side
The antlered oak doth grow,
And darkles o'er the dim tide
That raves and rolls below;

The sable yew, the sear tree
That loves to sigh alone,
When deep in earth they've left thee
And all thy friends are gone;

The pine wrapped up in grim pall,
And elm with rooky bow'rs,
Stretching her arms parental
Over the feeble flowers—

These and their leafy peers spread
Their umbrage o'er the dale,
Lending thee all thy sweet shade,
My loved, my lonely vale!

But down beside the rude stream
That from the rocks doth pour,
Where Echo with her shrill scream
Rewordeth back its roar,

My bower blooms, all beauteous
With buds and blossoms fair,
That hang the head, all duteous,
Whilst I lie dreaming there.

The honeysuckle drooping
From off her spousal stems,
And o'er her master stooping,
Scatters her purple gems.

Pale lilac bends to kiss me,
And roses clasp my feet;
Coy violet, but to bless me,
Peeps from her dim retreat.

Upon my lilied pillow
Thus flow'r-embraced I lie,
And let the hoarse-tongued billow
Rave my loud lullaby!

Whilst hung amid the bright flowers,
And passioned by their sighs,
About the silent star-hours
My lyre's wild words arise.

Whether an elve descending
From out the joyless moon,
And to my bower bending
Sweeps o'er her airy tune,

Or that the vagrant night-breeze
Poised on its viewless wings
Whispers unto the light trees
Some sweet and amorous things,

I know not—but the words seem
At times as true and clear,
As to the eye the sunbeam,
Or thunder to the ear.

Sometimes as faint and foundless,
As perishing and vain,
As senseless, though not soundless,
As haunt the dreamer's brain.

Perchance they are my wind-lyre's,
Perchance they are my own;
When night puts out the pale fires
I only know—they're gone!