06.05.2009, 06:26
ON A PEBBLE USED IN MAKING GLASS.
White pebble, that man's subtle art ere long
Shall change to crystal, which the bubbling wine
Lights up with gladness, or the eyes divine
Of beauty see within the impalpable wrong,
Their own reflection—now the forest song
Murmurs around thee, a glad rest were thine,
Here on the rock, did always summer shine
These grave columnar woods, and hills among;
But winter comes, like a cold angry cloud
Up-streaming from a glacier, and his shield
Fills all the hollow sky, and shuts the sun;
Then with new fire may'st thou have been annealed,
And I, amid some fair reflected crowd
In thy deep mirror, follow only one.
White pebble, that man's subtle art ere long
Shall change to crystal, which the bubbling wine
Lights up with gladness, or the eyes divine
Of beauty see within the impalpable wrong,
Their own reflection—now the forest song
Murmurs around thee, a glad rest were thine,
Here on the rock, did always summer shine
These grave columnar woods, and hills among;
But winter comes, like a cold angry cloud
Up-streaming from a glacier, and his shield
Fills all the hollow sky, and shuts the sun;
Then with new fire may'st thou have been annealed,
And I, amid some fair reflected crowd
In thy deep mirror, follow only one.