Samuel Coleridge

It may indeed be fantasy when I Essay to draw from all created things Deep, heartfelt, inward joy that closely clings; And trace in leaves and flowers that round me lie Lessons of love and earnest piety. So let it be; and if the wide world rings In mock of this belief, it brings Nor fear, nor grief, nor vain perplexity. So will I build my altar in the fields, And the blue sky my fretted dome shall be, And the sweet fragrance that the wild flower yields Shall be the incense I will yield to Thee, Thee only God! and thou shalt not despise Even me, the priest of this poor sacrifice.

Verse, a Breeze 'mid blossoms straying, Where HOPE clung feeding, like a bee-- Both were mine ! Life went a-maying With NATURE, HOPE, and POESY, [Image][Image]When I was young !

When I was young ?--Ah, woful WHEN ! Ah ! for the Change 'twixt Now and Then ! This breathing House not built with hands, This body that does me grievous wrong, O'er жry Cliffs and glittering Sands, How lightly then it flashed along :-- Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore, On winding lakes and rivers wide, That ask no aid of Sail or Oar, That fear no spite of Wind or Tide ! Nought cared this Body for wind or weather When YOUTH and I lived in't together.

FLOWERS are lovely ; LOVE is flower-like ; FRIENDSHIP is a sheltering tree ; O ! the Joys, that came down shower-like, Of FRIENDSHIP, LOVE, and LIBERTY, [Image] [Image] [Image] [Image] Ere I was old !

Ere I was old ? Ah woful ERE, Which tells me, YOUTH'S no longer here ! O YOUTH ! for years so many and sweet, 'Tis known, that Thou and I were one, I'll think it but a fond conceit-- It cannot be that Thou art gone ! Thy Vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd :-- And thou wert aye a Masker bold ! What strange Disguise hast now put on, To make believe, that thou art gone ? I see these Locks in silvery slips, This drooping Gait, this altered Size : But SPRINGTIDE blossoms on thy Lips, And Tears take sunshine from thine eyes ! Life is but Thought : so think I will That YOUTH and I are House-mates still.

Dew-drops are the gems of morning, But the tears of mournful eve ! Where no hope is, life's a warning That only serves to make us grieve, [Image][Image]When we are old :

That only serves to make us grieve With oft and tedious taking-leave, Like some poor nigh-related guest, That may not rudely be dismist ; Yet hath outstay'd his welcome while, And tells the jest without the smile.

All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair— The bees are stirring—birds are on the wing— And Winter slumbering in the open air, Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring! And I the while, the sole unbusy thing, Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.

Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow, Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow. Bloom, O ye amaranths! bloom for whom ye may, For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, away! With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll: And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul? Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve, And Hope without an object cannot live.

(composed 21st February 1825)

Ungrateful he, who pluck'd thee from thy stalk, Poor faded flow'ret! on his careless way; Inhal'd awhile thy odours on his walk, Then onward pass'd and left thee to decay. Ah! melancholy emblem! had I seen Thy modest beauties dew'd with Evening's gem, I had not rudely cropp'd thy parent stem, But left thee, blushing, 'mid the enliven'd green. And now I bend me o'er thy wither'd bloom, And drop the tear - as Fancy, at my side, Deep-sighing, points the fair frail Abra's tomb - 'Like thine, sad Flower, was that poor wanderer's pride! Oh! lost to Love and Truth, whose selfish joy Tasted her vernal sweets, but tasted to destroy!'

As some vast Tropic tree, itself a wood, That crests its Head with clouds, beneath the flood Feeds its deep roots, and with the bulging flank Of its wide base controls the fronting bank, (By the slant current's pressure scoop'd away The fronting bank becomes a foam-piled bay) High in the Fork the uncouth Idol knits His channel'd Brows; low murmurs stir by fits And dark below the horrid Faquir sits; An Horror from its broad Head's branchy wreath Broods o'er the rude Idolatry beneath--

Resembles Life what once was held of Light, Too ample in itself for human sight ? An absolute Self--an element ungrounded-- All, that we see, all colours of all shade [Image]By encroach of darkness made ?-- Is very life by consciousness unbounded ? And all the thoughts, pains, joys of mortal breath, A war-embrace of wrestling Life and Death ?

If I had but two little wings And were a little feathery bird, To you I'd fly, my dear! But thoughts like these are idle things, And I stay here.

But in my sleep to you I fly: I'm always with you in my sleep! The world is all one's own. But then one wakes, and where am I? All, all alone.

Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids: So I love to wake ere break of day: For though my sleep be gone, Yet while 'tis dark, one shuts one's lids, And still dreams on.

When Hope but made Tranquillity be felt-- A Flight of Hopes for ever on the wing But made Tranquillity a conscious Thing-- And wheeling round and round in sportive coil Fann'd the calm air upon the brow of Toil--