IV

Thou of the many tongues, the myriad eyes!

Thou comest not with shows of flaunting vines

                  Unto mine inner eye,

                  Divinest memory!

Thou wert not nursed by the waterfall

Which ever sounds and shines

      A pillar of white light upon the wall

Of purple cliffs, aloof descried:

Come from the woods that belt the gray hill-side,

The seven elms, the poplars four

That stand beside my father's door,

And chiefly from the brook that loves

To purl o'er matted cress and ribbed sand,

Or dimple in the dark of rushy coves,

Drawing into his narrow earthen urn,

                  In every elbow and turn,

The filter'd tribute of the rough woodland.

                  I hither lead thy feet!

Pour round mine oars the livelong bleat

Of the thick-fleeced sheep from wattled folds,

                  Upon the ridged wolds,

When the first matin-song hath waken'd loud

Over the dark dewy earth forlorn,

What time the amber morn

Forth gushes from beneath a low-hung cloud.