This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,
Sails the unshadowed main,—
The venturous bark that flings
On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings
In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings,
And coral reefs lie bare,
Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;
Wrecked is the ship of pearl!
And every chambered cell,
Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,
As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,
Before thee lies revealed,—
Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!

Year after year beheld the silent toil
That spread his lustrous coil;
Still, as the spiral grew,
He left the past year’s dwelling for the new,
Stole with soft step its shining archway through,
Built up its idle door,
Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,
Child of the wandering sea,
Cast from her lap, forlorn!
From thy dead lips a clearer note is born
Than ever Triton blew from wreathèd horn!
While on mine ear it rings,
Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:—

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,
As the swift seasons roll!
Leave thy low-vaulted past!
Let each new temple, nobler than the last,
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,
Till thou at length art free,
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life’s unresting sea!

The Spring-time, O the Spring-time! 
Who does not know it well? 
When the little birds begin to build, 
And the buds begin to swell. 
When the sun with the clouds plays hide-and-seek, 
And the lambs are bucking and bleating, 
And the colour mounts to the maiden's cheek, 
And the cuckoo scatters greeting; 
In the Spring-time, joyous Spring-time! 

The Summer, O the Summer! 
Who does not know it well? 
When the ringdoves coo the long day through, 
And the bee refills his cell. 
When the swish of the mower is heard at morn, 
And we all in the woods go roaming, 
And waiting is over, and love is born, 
And shy lips meet in the gloaming; 
In the Summer, ripening Summer! 

The Autumn, O the Autumn! 
Who does not know it well? 
When the leaf turns brown, and the mast drops down, 
And the chestnut splits its shell. 
When we muse o'er the days that have gone before, 
And the days that will follow after, 
When the grain lies deep on the winnowing-floor, 
And the plump gourd hangs from the rafter; 
In the Autumn, thoughtful Autumn! 

The Winter, O the Winter! 
Who does not know it well? 
When, day after day, the fields stretch gray, 
And the peewit wails on the fell. 
When we close up the crannies and shut out the cold, 
And the wind sounds hoarse and hollow, 
And our dead loves sleep in the churchyard mould, 
And we feel that we soon shall follow; 
In the Winter, mournful Winter!