There is an isle in an unfurrowed
That I wot of, whereon the whole year
The apple-blossoms and the rosebuds
In early blooming ; and a many
Of ten-stringed lute, and most mellifluous
Of silver flute, and mellow half-heard horn,
Making unmeasured music.
Thither
Coming like Love, takes all things in the
Of tenderest life, and being a delicate god,
In his own garden takes each delicate
Unstained, unmellowed, immature, untrod,
Tremulous betwixt the summer and the spring :
The rosebud ere it come to be a rose,
The blossom ere it win to be a fruit,
The virginal snowdrop, and the dove that
Only one dove for lover ; all the
Of young soft things, and all the
Of unripe flowers.
Never comes the
To matron fulness, here no
Vexes desire, and the sun knows no noon.
But all the happy dwellers of that
Are reckless children gotten on
By Beauty that is thrall to Death ; no grace,
No natural sweet they lack, a
Of perfect beauty each.
No wisdom
To mar their early folly, no false
Man-made for man, no mouthing prudence
Their green unthought, or gives their licence pause ;
Young animals, young flowers, they live and grow,
And die before their sweet emblossomed
Has learnt to sigh save like a lover's.
Oh !
How sweet is Youth, how delicate is Death !
