In A Museum
I
Here’s the mould of a musical bird long passed from light,
Which over the earth before man came was winging;
There’s a contralto voice I heard last night,
That lodges with me still in its sweet singing.
II
Such a dream is Time that the coo of this ancient bird
Has perished not, but is blent, or will be blending
Mid visionless wilds of space with the voice that I heard,
In the full-fuged song of the universe unending.
(1 votes, average: 5.00 out of 5)Related poetry:
- The Selfsame Song A bird sings the selfsame song, With never a fault in its flow, That we listened to here those long […]...
- At the British Museum I turn the page and read: “I dream of silent verses where the rhyme Glides noiseless as an oar.” The […]...
- In The Deep Museum My God, my God, what queer corner am I in? Didn’t I die, blood running down the post, Lungs gagging […]...
- Museum Piece The good gray guardians of art Patrol the halls on spongy shoes, Impartially protective, though Perhaps suspicious of Toulouse. Here […]...
- Budapest Museum of Fine Arts a Memo from the Past This is to compliment those Who have made us petrified And conjured up evidence of […]...
- Saddest Poem I can write the saddest poem of all tonight. Write, for instance: “The night is full of stars, And the […]...
- Historion No man hath dared to write this thing as yet, And yet I know, how that the souls of all […]...
- George Meredith Forty years back, when much had place That since has perished out of mind, I heard that voice and saw […]...
- Some Like Poetry Write it. Write. In ordinary ink On ordinary paper: they were given no food, They all died of hunger. “All. […]...
- Closing While I, that reed-throated whisperer Who comes at need, although not now as once A clear articulation in the air, […]...
- The Happy Child I saw this day sweet flowers grow thick But not one like the child did pick. I heard the packhounds […]...
- The Owners Of The Little Box Line the inside of the little box With your precious skin And make yourself cozy Just as you would in […]...
- The Poor Old Cannon Upbroke the sun In red-gold foam; Thus spoke the gun At the Soldier’s Home: “Whenever I hear Blue thunder speak […]...
- The Sonnets To Orpheus: Book 2: I Breathing: you invisible poem! Complete Interchange of our own Essence with world-space. You counterweight In which I rythmically happen. Single […]...
- The Great Minimum It is something to have wept as we have wept, It is something to have done as we have done, […]...
- Whom We Worship I WOULD not have the love of lips and eyes, The ancient ways of love: But in my heart I […]...
- The Cuckoo The cuckoo, like a hawk in flight, With narrow pointed wings Whews o’er our heads-soon out of sight And as […]...
- TO WILLIAM E. CHANNING The pages of thy book I read, And as I closed each one, My heart, responding, ever said, “Servant of […]...
- Shelley's Skylark (The neighbourhood of Leghorn: March) Somewhere afield here something lies In Earth’s oblivious eyeless trust That moved a poet to prophecies – A pinch of […]...
- The Things that never can come back, are several The Things that never can come back, are several Childhood some forms of Hope the Dead Though Joys like Men […]...
- One Blessing had I than the rest One Blessing had I than the rest So larger to my Eyes That I stopped gauging satisfied For this enchanted […]...
- Informational Decay I heard an echo in a hollow place. No sound of blowing wind or drifting sand, Some ancient voice was […]...
- Orphan School Full fifty merry maids I heard One summer morn a-singing; And each was like a joyous bird With spring-clear not […]...
- Premonition At Twilight The magpie in the Joshua tree Has come to rest. Darkness collects, And what I cannot hear or see, Broken […]...
- On an Invitation to the United States I My ardours for emprize nigh lost Since Life has bared its bones to me, I shrink to seek a […]...
- SYMBOLS PALM Sunday at the Vatican They celebrate with palms; With reverence bows each holy man, And chaunts the ancient psalms. […]...
- Critic and Poet: an Epilogue No man had ever heard a nightingale, When once a keen-eyed naturalist was stirred To study and define what is […]...
- Villanelle Of Spring Bells Bells in the town alight with spring Converse, with a concordance of new airs Make clear the fresh and ancient […]...
- In The Old Theatre, Fiesole I traced the Circus whose gray stones incline Where Rome and dim Etruria interjoin, Till came a child who showed […]...
- That Bright Chimeric Beast That bright chimeric beast Conceived yet never born, Save in the poet’s breast, The white-flanked unicorn, Never may be shaken […]...
- Poor Poet ‘A man should write to please himself,’ He proudly said. Well, see his poems on the shelf, Dusty, unread. When […]...
- It's Ours there is always that space there Just before they get to us That space That fine relaxer The breather While […]...
- Unlyric Love Song It is time to give that-of-myself which I could not at first: To offer you now at last my least […]...
- Suggested by the Cover of a Volume of Keats's Poems Wild little bird, who chose thee for a sign To put upon the cover of this book? Who heard thee […]...
- Carbonara eyes Nicky said I couldn’t write, she’s got a charming Sense of social etiquette – given she’s a bitch (the canine […]...
- To a Very Wise Man I Fires in the dark you build; tall quivering flames In the huge midnight forest of the unknown. Your soul […]...
- Two idylls from bion the smyrnean I Once a fowler, young and artless, To the quiet greenwood came; Full of skill was he and heartless In […]...
- Tonight I Can Write Tonight I can write the saddest lines. Write, for example, ‘The night is starry And the stars are blue and […]...
- I know why the caged bird sings A free bird leaps on the back Of the wind and floats downstream Till the current ends and dips his […]...
- What Birds Plunge Through Is Not The Intimate Space What birds plunge through is not the intimate space, In which you see all Forms intensified. (In the Open, denied, […]...