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Sonnets and Canzonets
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VI
“Comes not the welcome morrow,”
My boding heart doth say;
Still grief from grief doth borrow;
“My child is far away.”
Still as I pray
The deeper swells my sorrow.
Break, break! The risen day
Takes not my grief away.
VII
Full well I know,
Joy’s spring is fathomless, —
Its fountains overflow
To cheer and bless,
And underneath our grief
Well forth and give relief.
Transported May!
Thou couldst not stay;
Who gave, took thee away.
Come, child, and whisper peace to me,
Say, must I wait, or come to thee?
I list to hear
Thy message clear.
VIII
“Cease, cease, new grief to borrow!”
Last night I heard her say;
“For sorrow hath no morrow,
’T is born of yesterday.
Translated thou shalt be,
My cloudless daylight see,
And bathe, as I, in fairest morrows endlessly.”
“Shall not from these remains,
From this low mound, dear ashes of the dead,
The violet spring?”
Persius.
XIX
O Death! thou utterest deeper speech,
A tenderer, truer tone,
Than all our languages can reach,
Though all were voiced in one.
Thy glance is deep, and, far beyond
All that our eyes do see,
Assures to fairest hopes and fond
Their immortality.
Sing, sing, the Immortals,
The Ancients of days,
Ever crowding the portals
Of Time’s peopled ways;
These Babes ever stealing
Into Eden’s glad feeling,
The fore-world revealing,
God’s face ne’er concealing.
XX
Voyager across the seas,
In my arms thy form I press;
Come, my Baby, me to please,
Blue-eyed nurseling, motherless!
All is strange and beautiful,
Every sense finds glad surprise,
Life is lovely, wonderful,
Faces fair, and beaming eyes.
Safe, ye angels, keep this child,
Life-long guard her innocence,
Winsome ways, and temper mild;
Heaven, our home, be her defence!
“O, how thy worth with manners may I sing,
When thou art all the better part of me?
What can mine own praise to mine own self bring?
And what is’t but mine own when I praise thee?”
Shakespeare.
XXI
Dear Heart! if aught to human love I’ve owed
For noble furtherance of the good and fair;
Climbed I, by bold emprise, the dizzying stair
To excellence, and was by thee approved,
In memory cherished and the more beloved;
If fortune smiled, and late-won liberty, —
’T was thy kind favor all, thy generous legacy.
Nor didst thou spare thy large munificence
Me here to pleasure amply and maintain,
But conjured from suspicion and mischance,
“Comes not the welcome morrow,”
My boding heart doth say;
Still grief from grief doth borrow;
“My child is far away.”
Still as I pray
The deeper swells my sorrow.
Break, break! The risen day
Takes not my grief away.
VII
Full well I know,
Joy’s spring is fathomless, —
Its fountains overflow
To cheer and bless,
And underneath our grief
Well forth and give relief.
Transported May!
Thou couldst not stay;
Who gave, took thee away.
Come, child, and whisper peace to me,
Say, must I wait, or come to thee?
I list to hear
Thy message clear.
VIII
“Cease, cease, new grief to borrow!”
Last night I heard her say;
“For sorrow hath no morrow,
’T is born of yesterday.
Translated thou shalt be,
My cloudless daylight see,
And bathe, as I, in fairest morrows endlessly.”
“Shall not from these remains,
From this low mound, dear ashes of the dead,
The violet spring?”
Persius.
XIX
O Death! thou utterest deeper speech,
A tenderer, truer tone,
Than all our languages can reach,
Though all were voiced in one.
Thy glance is deep, and, far beyond
All that our eyes do see,
Assures to fairest hopes and fond
Their immortality.
Sing, sing, the Immortals,
The Ancients of days,
Ever crowding the portals
Of Time’s peopled ways;
These Babes ever stealing
Into Eden’s glad feeling,
The fore-world revealing,
God’s face ne’er concealing.
XX
Voyager across the seas,
In my arms thy form I press;
Come, my Baby, me to please,
Blue-eyed nurseling, motherless!
All is strange and beautiful,
Every sense finds glad surprise,
Life is lovely, wonderful,
Faces fair, and beaming eyes.
Safe, ye angels, keep this child,
Life-long guard her innocence,
Winsome ways, and temper mild;
Heaven, our home, be her defence!
“O, how thy worth with manners may I sing,
When thou art all the better part of me?
What can mine own praise to mine own self bring?
And what is’t but mine own when I praise thee?”
Shakespeare.
XXI
Dear Heart! if aught to human love I’ve owed
For noble furtherance of the good and fair;
Climbed I, by bold emprise, the dizzying stair
To excellence, and was by thee approved,
In memory cherished and the more beloved;
If fortune smiled, and late-won liberty, —
’T was thy kind favor all, thy generous legacy.
Nor didst thou spare thy large munificence
Me here to pleasure amply and maintain,
But conjured from suspicion and mischance,
Другие электронные книги автора Amos Alcott
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Классная книга. Очень многое объясняет, что скрытое реально происходит в человеке