Sweet are the thoughts that haunt the poet’s brain
Like rainbow-fringed clouds, through which some star
Peeps in bright glory on a shepherd swain;
They sweep along and trance him; sweeter far
Than incense trailing up an out-stretched chain
From rocking censer; sweeter too they are
Than the thin mist which rises in the gale
From out the slender cowslip’s bee-scarred breast.
Their delicate pinions buoy up a tale
Like brittle wings, which curtain in the vest
Of cobweb-limbed ephemera, that sail
In gauzy mantle of dun twilight dressed,
Borne on the wind’s soft sighings, when the spring
Listens all evening to its whispering.
Back to Thomas Lovell Beddoes