One lesson, Nature, let me learn of thee, One lesson which in every wind is blown,
'Twas August, and the fierce sun overhead Smote on the squalid streets of Bethnal Green,
A region desolate and wild. Black, chafing water: and afloat,
Weary of myself, and sick of asking What I am, and what I ought to be,
I ask not that my bed of death From bands of greedy heirs be free;
Through the black, rushing smoke-bursts, Thick breaks the red flame;
Hark! ah, the nightingale-- The tawny-throated!
The evening comes, the fields are still. The tinkle of the thirsty rill,
Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet, Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet!
Creep into thy narrow bed, Creep, and let no more be said!
Mist clogs the sunshine. Smoky dwarf houses
Come to me in my dreams, and then By day I shall be well again!
Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet, Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet!
We were apart; yet, day by day, I bade my heart more constant be.
Goethe in Weimar sleeps, and Greece, Long since, saw Byron's struggle cease.
A wanderer is man from his birth. He was born in a ship
Others abide our question. Thou art free. We ask and ask--thou smilest and art still,
Through the black, rushing smoke-bursts, Thick breaks the red flame.
God knows it, I am with you. If to prize Those virtues, priz'd and practis'd by too few,
Coldly, sadly descends The autumn-evening. The field
One lesson, Nature, let me learn of thee, One lesson which in every wind is blown,
'Twas August, and the fierce sun overhead Smote on the squalid streets of Bethnal Green,
A region desolate and wild. Black, chafing water: and afloat,
Weary of myself, and sick of asking What I am, and what I ought to be,
I ask not that my bed of death From bands of greedy heirs be free;
Through the black, rushing smoke-bursts, Thick breaks the red flame;
Hark! ah, the nightingale-- The tawny-throated!
The evening comes, the fields are still. The tinkle of the thirsty rill,
Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet, Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet!
Creep into thy narrow bed, Creep, and let no more be said!
Mist clogs the sunshine. Smoky dwarf houses
Come to me in my dreams, and then By day I shall be well again!
Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet, Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet!
We were apart; yet, day by day, I bade my heart more constant be.
Goethe in Weimar sleeps, and Greece, Long since, saw Byron's struggle cease.
A wanderer is man from his birth. He was born in a ship
Others abide our question. Thou art free. We ask and ask--thou smilest and art still,
Through the black, rushing smoke-bursts, Thick breaks the red flame.
God knows it, I am with you. If to prize Those virtues, priz'd and practis'd by too few,
Coldly, sadly descends The autumn-evening. The field