Ii

Awake, awake! The silence hath a voice; Not thine, thou heart of fire, palpitating Until all griefs change countenance and rejoice, And all joys ache o’er-ripe since thou dost sing, Not thine this voice of the dry meadow-lands, Harsh iteration! note untuneable! Which shears the breathing quiet with a blade Of ragged edge! Say, wilt thou ne’er be still Crier in June’s high progress, whose commands Upon no heedless drowzed heart are laid?