'Tis not alone the warbling woods,
The starred abysses of the sky,
The silent hills, the stormy floods,
The green that fills the eye -
These only do not move the breast;
Like some wise artist, Nature gives,
Through all her works, to each that lives
A hint of somewhat unexprest.
Whate'er I see, where'er I move,
These whispers rise, and fall away,
Something of pain - of bliss - of Love,
But what, were hard to say .
I could not tell it: if I could
Yet every form of mind is made
To vary in some light or shade
So were my tale misunderstood.
[A. Tennyson]
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