I stood tiptoe upon a hill,
The air was cooling, and so very still,
That the sweet buds which with a modest pride
Pull droopingly, in slanted curve aside,
Their scantly leaved, and finely tapering stems,
Had not yet lost those starry diadems
Caught from the early sobbing of the morn.
The clouds were pure and white as flocks new shorn.
On First Looking into Chapman's Homer
Much have I traveled in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne;
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold;
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new plant swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
He started at the Pacific-and all his men
Looked at each other with wild surmise-
Silent, upon a peak in Darien