SONNET. 
 
THE woods are very quiet, and the stream 
Hardly awakes the stilled ear with its word ; 
The voice of wind above like dawn is heard, 
And all the air moves up, a sultry steam, 
Here in the flower-land, where I lie and dream 
And understand the silence of the bird ; 
My sorrow and my weakness are interred 
In the deep water where the pebbles gleam. 
 
I rouse the force persistent of my will 
To compel matter to the soul’s desire, 
To make Heaven aid the mind that would aspire 
To touch its borders, and to drink their fill 
At those far fountains whence one drop of dew 
Descends upon my head from yonder blue. 
 
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