Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. 1919. The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1900.
O PERFECT Light, which shaid away | |
The darkness from the light, | |
And set a ruler o’er the day, | |
Another o’er the night— | |
|
Thy glory, when the day forth flies, | 5 |
More vively doth appear | |
Than at mid day unto our eyes | |
The shining sun is clear. | |
|
The shadow of the earth anon | |
Removes and drawis by, | 10 |
While in the East, when it is gone, | |
Appears a clearer sky. | |
|
Which soon perceive the little larks, | |
The lapwing and the snipe, | |
And tune their songs, like Nature’s clerks, | 15 |
O’er meadow, muir, and stripe. | |
|
Our hemisphere is polisht clean, | |
And lighten’d more and more, | |
While everything is clearly seen | |
Which seemit dim before: | 20 |
|
Except the glistering astres bright, | |
Which all the night were clear, | |
Offuskit with a greater light | |
No longer do appear. | |
|
The golden globe incontinent | 25 |
Sets up his shining head, | |
And o’er the earth and firmament | |
Displays his beams abread. | |
|
For joy the birds with boulden throats | |
Against his visage sheen | 30 |
Take up their kindly musick notes | |
In woods and gardens green. | |
|
The dew upon the tender crops, | |
Like pearlis white and round, | |
Or like to melted silver drops, | 35 |
Refreshis all the ground. | |
|
The misty reek, the clouds of rain, | |
From tops of mountains skails, | |
Clear are the highest hills and plain, | |
The vapours take the vales. | 40 |
|
The ample heaven of fabrick sure | |
In cleanness does surpass | |
The crystal and the silver pure, | |
Or clearest polisht glass. | |
|
The time so tranquil is and still | 45 |
That nowhere shall ye find, | |
Save on a high and barren hill, | |
An air of peeping wind. | |
|
All trees and simples, great and small, | |
That balmy leaf do bear, | 50 |
Than they were painted on a wall | |
No more they move or steir. | |
|
Calm is the deep and purple sea, | |
Yea, smoother than the sand; | |
The waves that weltering wont to be | 55 |
Are stable like the land. | |
|
So silent is the cessile air | |
That every cry and call | |
The hills and dales and forest fair | |
Again repeats them all. | 60 |
|
The flourishes and fragrant flowers, | |
Through Phoebus’ fostering heat, | |
Refresht with dew and silver showers | |
Cast up an odour sweet. | |
|
The cloggit busy humming bees, | 65 |
That never think to drone, | |
On flowers and flourishes of trees | |
Collect their liquor brown. | |
|
The Sun, most like a speedy post | |
With ardent course ascends; | 70 |
The beauty of the heavenly host | |
Up to our zenith tends. | |
|
The burning beams down from his face | |
So fervently can beat, | |
That man and beast now seek a place | 75 |
To save them from the heat. | |
|
The herds beneath some leafy tree | |
Amidst the flowers they lie; | |
The stable ships upon the sea | |
Tend up their sails to dry. | 80 |
|
With gilded eyes and open wings | |
The cock his courage shows; | |
With claps of joy his breast he dings, | |
And twenty times he crows. | |
|
The dove with whistling wings so blue | 85 |
The winds can fast collect; | |
Her purple pens turn many a hue | |
Against the sun direct. | |
|
Now noon is went; gone is midday, | |
The heat doth slake at last; | 90 |
The sun descends down West away, | |
For three of clock is past. | |
|
The rayons of the sun we see | |
Diminish in their strength; | |
The shade of every tower and tree | 95 |
Extendit is in length. | |
|
Great is the calm, for everywhere | |
The wind is setting down; | |
The reek throws right up in the air | |
From every tower and town. | 100 |
|
The gloming comes; the day is spent; | |
The sun goes out of sight; | |
And painted is the occident | |
With purple sanguine bright. | |
|
Our west horizon circular | 105 |
From time the sun be set | |
Is all with rubies, as it were, | |
Or roses red o’erfret. | |
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What pleasure were to walk and see, | |
Endlong a river clear, | 110 |
The perfect form of every tree | |
Within the deep appear. | |
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O then it were a seemly thing, | |
While all is still and calm, | |
The praise of God to play and sing | 115 |
With cornet and with shalm! | |
|
All labourers draw home at even, | |
And can to other say, | |
Thanks to the gracious God of heaven, | |
Which sent this summer day. | 120 |