TO dwell all day upon the mountain height,
And ride all night upon the rifted cloud;
To watch the earliest arrow in his flight
Morning despatches from her misty shroud;
To lie at evening on the lonely sands,
Hearing the waters tell mysterious tales
Of whispering lovers upon unknown strands,
And suns that die to gladden rosier sails;
To wander in the midnight of the wood,
And hear the timid cuckoo cry afar;
To watch the rising of June's flowery flood,
And Hesper leading evening with one star, --

These are the poet's joy, the singer's food;
Yet often from the mighty top of song,
Where, clothed with solitude, his feet have stood,
He gazes wistful from the awful throng
Of shapes imagination hath made his
Down to the fireside and the homely bliss
Of one returning and the greeting kiss.

The throbbing stars return, why should not he?
Why ever float upon the restless sea?
Open thy heart, love, let me fly to thee!