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There, Robert, you have kill’d that fly — ,
And should you thousand ages try
The life you’ve taken to supply,
What if the sun comes out
And the new furrows do not look smeared?
This is April, and the sumach candles
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
A thin wet sky, that yellows at the rim,
And meets with sun-lost lip the marsh’s brim.
The pools low lying, dank with moss and mould,
Glory be to God for dappled things —
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim…
I caught this morning morning’s minion, king-
dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
Of the rolling…
Nothing is so beautiful as Spring —
When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush;
Thrush’s eggs look little low heavens,…
As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame;
As tumbled over rim in roundy wells
Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell’s
Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!
Long has it waved on high,
And many an eye has danced to see
Fair tree! for thy delightful shade
’Tis just that some return be made;
Sure some return is due from me
For weeks and weeks the autumn world stood still,
Clothed in the shadow of a smoky haze;
The fields were dead, the wind had lost its will,
Ah! why, because the dazzling sun
Restored my earth to joy
Have you departed, every one,
