Page:Sibylline Leaves (Coleridge).djvu/181



warm this woodland wild Recess!
 * surely hath been breathing here.
 * And this sweet bed of heath, my dear!

Swells up, then sinks with faint caress,
 * As if to have you yet more near.

Eight springs have flown, since last I lay
 * On sea-ward Quantock's heathy hills,
 * Where quiet sounds from hidden rills

Float here and there, like things astray,
 * And high o'er head the sky-lark shrills.

No voice as yet had made the air
 * Be music with your name: yet why
 * That asking look? That yearning sigh?

That sense of promise every where?
 * Beloved! flew your spirit by?