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Sing, Poet, ’tis a merry world; That cottage smoke is rolled and curled In sport, that every moss Is happy, every inch of soil;— Before me runs a road of toil ...
Sing, Poet, ’tis a merry world; That cottage smoke is rolled and curled In sport, that every moss Is happy, every inch of soil;— Before me runs a road of toil With my grave cut across. Sing, trailing showers and breezy downs — I know the tragic hearts of towns.
City! I am true son of thine; Ne’er dwelt I where great mornings shine Around the bleating pens; Ne’er by the rivulets I strayed, And ne’er upon my childhood weighed The silence of the glens. Instead of shores where ocean beats, I hear the ebb and flow of streets. …
Afar, one summer, I was borne; Through golden vapours of the morn, I heard the hills of sheep: I trod with a wild ecstasy The bright fringe of the living sea: And on a ruined keep I sat, and watched an endless plain Blacken beneath the gloom of rain.
O fair the lightly sprinkled waste, O’er which a laughing shower has raced! O fair the April shoots! O fair the woods on summer days, While a blue hyacinthine haze Is dreaming round the roots! In thee, O city! I discern Another beauty, sad and stern.
Draw thy fierce streams of blinding ore, Smite on a thousand anvils, roar Down to the harbour-bars; Smoulder in smoky sunsets, flare On rainy nights, while street and square Lie empty to the stars. From terrace proud to alley base, I know thee as my mother’s face.
When sunset bathes thee in his gold, In wreaths of bronze thy sides are rolled, Thy smoke is dusty fire; And from the glory round thee poured, A sunbeam like an angel’s sword Shivers upon a spire. Thus have I watched thee, Terror! Dream! While the blue Night crept up the stream...
But all these sights and sounds are strange; Then wherefore from thee should I range? Thou hast my kith and kin; My childhood, youth, and manhood brave; Thou hast that unforgotten grave Within thy central din. A sacredness of love and death Dwells in thy noise and smoky breath.