A Short Poem or Else Not Say I

True pleasure breathes not city air, 
Nor in Art's temples dwells, 
In palaces and towers where 
The voice of Grandeur dwells.

No! Seek it where high Nature holds 
Her court 'mid stately groves, 
Where she her majesty unfolds, 
And in fresh beauty moves;

Where thousand birds of sweetest song, 
The wildly rushing storm 
And hundred streams which glide along, 
Her mighty concert form!

Go where the woods in beauty sleep 
Bathed in pale Luna's light, 
Or where among their branches sweep 
The hollow sounds of night.

Go where the warbling nightingale 
In gushes rich doth sing, 
Till all the lonely, quiet vale 
With melody doth ring.

Go, sit upon a mountain steep, 
And view the prospect round; 
The hills and vales, the valley's sweep, 
The far horizon bound.

Then view the wide sky overhead, 
The still, deep vault of blue, 
The sun which golden light doth shed, 
The clouds of pearly hue.

And as you gaze on this vast scene 
Your thoughts will journey far, 
Though hundred years should roll between 
On Time's swift-passing car.

To ages when the earth was yound, 
When patriarchs, grey and old, 
The praises of their god oft sung, 
And oft his mercies told.

You see them with their beards of snow, 
Their robes of ample form, 
Their lives whose peaceful, gentle flow, 
Felt seldom passion's storm.

Then a calm, solemn pleasure steals 
Into your inmost mind; 
A quiet aura your spirit feels, 
A softened stillness kind. 

Added: Jun 1 2005 | Viewed: 744 times | Comments (0)

Poet: Charlotte Bronte
Poem: Pleasure

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