The Glory + 

The glory of the beauty of the morning⁠— + 

The cuckoo crying over the untouched dew; + 

The blackbird that has found it, and the dove + 

That tempts me on to something sweeter than love; + 

White clouds ranged even and fair as new-mown hay; + 

The heat, the stir, the sublime vacancy + 

Of sky and meadow and forest and my own heart:⁠— + 

The glory invites me, yet it leaves me scorning + 

All I can ever do, all I can be, + 

Beside the lovely of motion, shape, and hue, + 

The happiness I fancy fit to dwell + 

In beauty’s presence. Shall I now this day + 

Begin to seek as far as heaven, as hell, + 

Wisdom or strength to match this beauty, start + 

And tread the pale dust pitted with small dark drops, + 

In hope to find whatever it is I seek, + 

Hearkening to short-lived happy-seeming things + 

That we know naught of, in the hazel copse? + 

Or must I be content with discontent + 

As larks and swallows are perhaps with wings? + 

And shall I ask at the day’s end once more + 

What beauty is, and what I can have meant + 

By happiness? And shall I let all go, + 

Glad, weary, or both? Or shall I perhaps know + 

That I was happy oft and oft before, + 

Awhile forgetting how I am fast pent, + 

How dreary-swift, with naught to travel to, + 

Is Time? I cannot bite the day to the core. + 