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hich overflows her bower:
Like a glow-worm golden In a dell of dewScattering unbeholden Its aerial hue Among the flowers and grass
which screen it from the view:
Like a rose embowered In its own green leavesBy warm winds defloweredTill the scent it gives Makes
faint with too much s [link widoczny dla zalogowanych][link widoczny dla zalogowanych]t these heavy-winged thieves:
Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grassRain-awakened flowersAll that ever was Joyousand clear
and freshthy music doth surpass.
Teach ussprite or birdWhat s[link widoczny dla zalogowanych]t thoughts are thine: I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted
forth a flood of rapture so divine.
Chorus hymenealOr triumphal chauntMatched with thine would be all But an empty vaunt - A thing
wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain? What fieldsor wavesor mountains? What shapes of sky
or plain? What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?
With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be: Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee: Thou lovest;
but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
Waking or asleepThou of death must deem Things more true and deep Than we mortals dreamOr how
could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?
We look before and afterAnd pine f