by William Ellery Channing


A dropping show of spray,
Filled with a beam of light,--
The breath of some soft day,--
The groves by wan moonlight,--
Some rivers flow,
Some falling snow,
Some bird's swift flight.

A summer field o'erstrown
With gay and laughing flowers,
And shepherd's clocks half blown,
That tell the merry hours,--
The waving grain,
The spring soft rain,--
Are these things ours?

- William Ellery Channing, in The Dial, III, 1

[ selected poems - offsite ]

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