TO THE SINKING SUN.

How graciously thou wear'st the yoke

Of use that does not fail!

The grasses, like an anchored smoke,

Ride in the bending gale;

This knoll is snowed with blosmy manna,

And fire-dropt as a seraph's mail.

Here every eve thou stretchest out

Untarnishable wing,

And marvellously bring'st about

Newly an olden thing;

Nor ever through like-ordered heaven

Moves largely thy grave progressing.

Here every eve thou goest down

Behind the self-same hill,

Nor ever twice alike go'st down

Behind the self-same hill;

Nor like-ways is one flame-sopped flower

Possessed with glory past its will.

Not twice alike! I am not blind,

My sight is live to see;

And yet I do complain of thy

Weary variety.

O Sun! I ask thee less or more,

Change not at all, or utterly!

O give me unprevisioned new,

Or give to change reprieve!

For new in me is olden too,

That I for sameness grieve.

O flowers! O grasses! be but once

The grass and flower of yester-eve!

Wonder and sadness are the lot

Of change: thou yield'st mine eyes

Grief of vicissitude, but not

Its penetrant surprise.

Immutability mutable

Burthens my spirit and the skies.

O altered joy, all joyed of yore,

Plodding in unconned ways!

O grief grieved out, and yet once more

A dull, new, staled amaze!

I dream, and all was dreamed before,

Or dream I so? the dreamer says.