По всем вопросам обращайтесь на: info@litportal.ru
(©) 2003-2024.
✖
Blooms of the Berry
Настройки чтения
Размер шрифта
Высота строк
Поля
Stretches its weary hide and cracks;
The spider weaves his windy woof
In dingy closet cracks,
And all a something lacks.
The freckled snake crawls o'er the floor,
Tongues at the shadows in the door,
And where the musty mosses run
Basks in the sun.
II
The children of the fathers sleep
Beneath the melancholy pines;
Earth-worms within grim skulls forever creep
And the glow-worm shines;
The orchards in the meadow deep
Lift up their stained, gnarled arms,
Mossed, lichened where limp lizards peep.
No youth swells up to make them leap
And cry against the storms;
No blossom lulls their age asleep,
Each wind brings sad alarms.
Big-bellied apples gold or bell-round pears
No maiden gathers now;
The moistures drip great reeking tears
From each old, crippled bough.
III
The orchards are yellow and solitary,
The winds beat down their hands;
The sunlight is sad and the moonlight is dreary,
The hum of the country is lonesome and weary,
And the bees go by in bands
To other happier lands.
The grasses are rotting in walk and in bower;
The orchards smell dank and rank
As a chamber where lay for a lonely hour
A corpse unclad in the taper's glower,
Chill, white, and lank.
So the bees go by in murmurous bands,
Drowsily wand'ring to happier lands
Where the lilies draggle the bank.
IV
In the desolate halls are lying,
Gold, blood-red, and browned,
Shriveled leaves of Autumn dying,
And the shadows o'er them flying
Turn them 'round and 'round,
Make a dreary sound
Thro' the echoing chambers crying
In the haunted house.
V
Gazing down in her white shroud
From the edging cloud
Comes at night the dimpled moon,
Comes, and like a ghost is gone
'Neath the flying cloud
O'er the haunted house.
PERLE DES JARDINS
What am I, and what is he
Who can cull and tear a heart,
As one might a rose for sport
In its royalty?
What am I, that he has made
All this love a bitter foam,
Blown about a life of loam
That must break and fade?
He who of my heart could make
Hollow crystal where his face
Like a passion had its place
Holy and then break!
Shatter with insensate jeers! —
But these weary eyes are dry,
Tearless clear, and if I die
They shall know no tears.
Yet my heart weeps; – let it weep!
Let it weep in sullen pain,
And this anguish in my brain
Cry itself to sleep.
Ah! the afternoon is warm,
And yon fields are glad and fair;
Many happy creatures there
Thro' the woodland swarm.
All the summer land is still,
And the woodland stream is dark
Where the lily rocks its barque
Just below the mill.
The spider weaves his windy woof
In dingy closet cracks,
And all a something lacks.
The freckled snake crawls o'er the floor,
Tongues at the shadows in the door,
And where the musty mosses run
Basks in the sun.
II
The children of the fathers sleep
Beneath the melancholy pines;
Earth-worms within grim skulls forever creep
And the glow-worm shines;
The orchards in the meadow deep
Lift up their stained, gnarled arms,
Mossed, lichened where limp lizards peep.
No youth swells up to make them leap
And cry against the storms;
No blossom lulls their age asleep,
Each wind brings sad alarms.
Big-bellied apples gold or bell-round pears
No maiden gathers now;
The moistures drip great reeking tears
From each old, crippled bough.
III
The orchards are yellow and solitary,
The winds beat down their hands;
The sunlight is sad and the moonlight is dreary,
The hum of the country is lonesome and weary,
And the bees go by in bands
To other happier lands.
The grasses are rotting in walk and in bower;
The orchards smell dank and rank
As a chamber where lay for a lonely hour
A corpse unclad in the taper's glower,
Chill, white, and lank.
So the bees go by in murmurous bands,
Drowsily wand'ring to happier lands
Where the lilies draggle the bank.
IV
In the desolate halls are lying,
Gold, blood-red, and browned,
Shriveled leaves of Autumn dying,
And the shadows o'er them flying
Turn them 'round and 'round,
Make a dreary sound
Thro' the echoing chambers crying
In the haunted house.
V
Gazing down in her white shroud
From the edging cloud
Comes at night the dimpled moon,
Comes, and like a ghost is gone
'Neath the flying cloud
O'er the haunted house.
PERLE DES JARDINS
What am I, and what is he
Who can cull and tear a heart,
As one might a rose for sport
In its royalty?
What am I, that he has made
All this love a bitter foam,
Blown about a life of loam
That must break and fade?
He who of my heart could make
Hollow crystal where his face
Like a passion had its place
Holy and then break!
Shatter with insensate jeers! —
But these weary eyes are dry,
Tearless clear, and if I die
They shall know no tears.
Yet my heart weeps; – let it weep!
Let it weep in sullen pain,
And this anguish in my brain
Cry itself to sleep.
Ah! the afternoon is warm,
And yon fields are glad and fair;
Many happy creatures there
Thro' the woodland swarm.
All the summer land is still,
And the woodland stream is dark
Where the lily rocks its barque
Just below the mill.
Другие электронные книги автора Madison Cawein
Последний отзыв
книга нужная