Just now,
Out of the strange
Still dusk . . . as strange, as still . . .
A white moth flew. Why am I grown

Since the meadow hides its face in satin shot with greens and blues,
And the mountains wrap their brows in silver veils of seven hues,
Earth is teeming like the musk-pod with aromas rich and rare,
Foliage bright as parrot's plumage doth the graceful willow wear.
Yestere'en the midnight breezes brought the tidings of the spring:
Welcome, O ye northern gales, for this glad promise which ye bring!
Up its sleeve the wind, meseemeth, pounded musk hath stored away,
While the garden fills its lap with shining dolls, as though for play.

Time nor place did I want, what held me tongue-tied?
What charms, what magical abused altars?
Wherefore wished I so oft that hour unhappy,
When with freedom I might recount my torments,
And plead for remedy by true lamenting?
Dumb, nay dead, in a trance I stood amazed,
When those looks I beheld that late I longed for:
No speech, no memory, no life remained;
Now speech prateth apace, my grief bewraying;
Now bootless memory my plaints rememb'reth;
Now life moveth again, but all avails not.
Speech, life, and memory die altogether;

Heirs to these marshy lowlands
Willows and reeds remain;
This was no place for pasture,
These are no fields for grain.

Yet here in feuding foray
Young peasants fought and died,
Not knowing why their princes
Drew swords that Eastertide
Drenching with blood these acres,
Stagnant, useless and sour,
Acres that never nourished
Cattle nor crops nor flower.
So Easter after Easter,
Dumb as the soil and deep,
Two hundred men of Meirion
Unshriven, lie asleep.

Symbols, these barren marshes,
Of continents and seas

Tell me not here, it needs not saying,
What tune the enchantress plays
In aftermaths of soft September
Or under blanching mays,
For she and I were long acquainted
And I knew all her ways.

On russet floors, by waters idle,
The pine lets fall its cone;
The cuckoo shouts all day at nothing
In leafy dells alone;
And traveller's joy beguiles in autumn
Hearts that have lost their own.

On acres of the seeded grasses
The changing burnish heaves;
Or marshalled under moons of harvest
Stand still all night the sheaves;

Stay, if you list, O passer by the way;
Yet night approaches; better not to stay.
I never sigh, nor flush, nor knit the brow,
Nor grieve to think how ill God made me, now.
Here, with one balm for many fevers found,
Whole of an ancient evil, I sleep sound.

Though your eyes with tears were blind,
Pain upon the path you trod:
Well we knew, the hosts behind,
Voice and shining of a god.

For your darkness was our day:
Signal fires, your pains untold
Lit us on our wandering way
To the mystic heart of gold.

Naught we knew of the high land,
Beauty burning in its spheres;
Sorrow we could understand
And the mystery told in tears.

The heavens lay hold on us: the starry rays
Fondle with flickering fingers brow and eyes:
A new enchantment lights the ancient skies.
What is it looks between us gaze on gaze;
Does the wild spirit of the endless days
Chase through my heart some lure that ever flies?
Only I know the vast within me cries
Finding in thee the ending of all ways.
Ah, but they vanish; the immortal train
From thee, from me, depart, yet take from thee
Memorial grace: laden with adoration
Forth from this heart they flow that all in vain

See , though the oil be low, more purely still and higher
The flame burns in the body's lamp. The watchers still
Gaze with unseeing eyes while the Promethean will,
The Uncreated Light, the Everlasting Fire,
Sustain themselves against the torturer's desire,
Even as the fabled Titan chained upon the hill.
Burn on, shine here, thou immortality, until
We too can light our lamps at the funereal pyre;
Till we too can be noble, unshakeable, undismayed
Till we too can burn with the holy flame, and know
There is that within us can conquer the dragon pain,

I LOVE to see at early morn,
The Squirrel sit before my door;
There crack his nuts and hide his shells,
And skip away to seek for more.

I love in hedge-row paths to see
The Linnet glance from spray to spray;
Or mark at evening's balmy close,
The Redbreast hop across my way.

For sure when Nature's free-born train
Approach with song and gambol near,
Some secret impulse bids them feel
The footsteps of a friend are there.

I LOVE to see at early morn,
The Squirrel sit before my door;
There crack his nuts and hide his shells,