Nature and Elements

O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being, Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, Pestilence-stricken multitudes.

The awful shadow of some unseen Power Floats though unseen among us—visiting This various world with as inconstant wing As summer winds that creep from flower to flower.

The English winter—ending in July, To recommence in August.

There’s not a sea the passenger e’er pukes in, Turns up more dangerous breakers than the Euxine.

So we’ll go no more a-roving So late into the night, Though the heart be still as loving, And the moon be still as bright. For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul wears out the breast, And the heart must pause to breathe, And love itself have rest. Though the night was made for loving, And the day returns too soon, Yet we’ll go no more a-roving By the light of the moon.

A light broke in upon my brain— It was the carol of a bird; It ceased, and then it came again, The sweetest song ear ever heard.

And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy I wanton’d with thy breakers.

Dark-heaving—boundless, endless, and sublime— The image of Eternity.

Dark-heaving—boundless, endless, and sublime— The image of Eternity.

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty’s form Glasses itself in tempests.

Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow— Such as creation’s dawn beheld, thou rollest now.

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep sea, and music in its roar: I love not man the less, but Nature more.

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep sea, and music in its roar: I love not man the less, but Nature more.

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean—roll! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; Man marks the earth with ruin—his control Stops with the shore.

Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn, but flying, Streams like the thunderstorm against the wind.

She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean, Rising with her tiara of proud towers At airy distance, with majestic motion, A ruler of the waters and their powers.

I live not in myself, but I become Portion of that around me: and to me High mountains are a feeling, but the hum Of human cities torture.

All tenantless, save to the crannying wind.

Once more upon the waters, yet once more! And the waves bound beneath me as a steed That knows his rider!

Vex’d with mirth the drowsy ear of night.

The poor dog, in life the firmest friend, The first to welcome, foremost to defend.

Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear.

You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will, But the scent of the roses will hang round it still. 1

’Tis the last rose of summer, Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone.