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Francis Thompson - To The Sinking Sun
Work rating: Low

How graciously thou wear`st the yoke
  Of use that does not fail!
The grasses, like an anchored smoke,
  Ride in the bending gale;
This knoll is snowed with blosmy manna,
  And fire-dropt as a seraph`s mail.

Here every eve thou stretchest out
  Untarnishable wing,
And marvellously bring`st about
  Newly an olden thing;
Nor ever through like-ordered heaven
  Moves largely thy grave progressing.

Here every eve thou goest down
  Behind the self-same hill,
Nor ever twice alike go`st down
  Behind the self-same hill;
Nor like-ways is one flame-sopped flower
  Possessed with glory past its will.

Not twice alike!  I am not blind,
  My sight is live to see;
And yet I do complain of thy
  Weary variety.
O Sun!  I ask thee less or more,
  Change not at all, or utterly!

O give me unprevisioned new,
  Or give to change reprieve!
For new in me is olden too,
  That I for sameness grieve.
O flowers! O grasses! be but once
  The grass and flower of yester-eve!

Wonder and sadness are the lot
  Of change:  thou yield`st mine eyes
Grief of vicissitude, but not
  Its penetrant surprise.
Immutability mutable
  Burthens my spirit and the skies.

O altered joy, all joyed of yore,
  Plodding in unconned ways!
O grief grieved out, and yet once more
  A dull, new, staled amaze!
I dream, and all was dreamed before,
  Or dream I so? the dreamer says.
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