He rush’d, returning. Then in scorn

Th’ Immortals smote him to a Stone

That aches for ever on the Peak.

1888.

1888.

 

LABOURS

 Sonnet

Sonnet

Sonnet

Sonnet

Sonnet

High Muse, who first, where to my opening sight,

New-born, the loftiest summits of the world,

Silent, with brows of ice and robes unfurl’d

Of motionless thunder, shone above the night,

Didst touch my infant eyes and fill with light

Of snow, and sleepless stars, and torrents hurl’d,

And fragrant pines of morning mist-empearl’d,

And music of great things and their delight:

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