По всем вопросам обращайтесь на: info@litportal.ru
(©) 2003-2024.
✖
The Cup of Comus: Fact and Fancy
Настройки чтения
Размер шрифта
Высота строк
Поля
I was of his bandit bands. —
Love should perish at our hands.
Young the Knight was. He should sing
Nevermore of love or spring,
Or of any gentle thing.
When he stole at midnight's hour,
To my Lady's forest bower,
We were hidden near the tower.
In the woods of Trebizend
There he met an evil end. —
Night, you know, is no man's friend.
He has fought in fort and field;
Borne for years a stainless shield,
And in strength to none would yield.
But we seized him unaware,
Bound and hung him; stripped him bare,
Left him to the wild boars there.
Never has my Lady known. —
But she often sits alone,
Weeping when my Lord is gone…
Night, they say, is no man's friend. —
In the woods of Trebizend
There he met an evil end.
Now my old Lord sleeps in peace,
While my Lady – each one sees —
Waits, and keeps her memories.
GHOSTS
Low, weed-climbed cliffs, o'er which at noon
The sea-mists swoon:
Wind-twisted pines, through which the crow
Goes winging slow:
Dim fields, the sower never sows,
Or reaps or mows:
And near the sea a ghostly house of stone
Where all is old and lone.
A garden, falling in decay,
Where statues gray
Peer, broken, out of tangled weed
And thorny seed:
Satyr and Nymph, that once made love
By walk and grove:
And, near a fountain, shattered, green with mold,
A sundial, lichen-old.
Like some sad life bereft,
To musing left,
The house stands: love and youth
Both gone, in sooth:
But still it sits and dreams:
And round it seems
Some memory of the past, still young and fair,
Haunting each crumbling stair.
And suddenly one dimly sees,
Come through the trees,
A woman, like a wild moss-rose:
A man, who goes
Softly: and by the dial
They kiss a while:
Then drowsily the mists blow round them, wan,
And they, like ghosts, are gone.
THE LONELY LAND
A river binds the lonely land,
A river like a silver band,
To crags and shores of yellow sand.
It is a place where kildees cry,
And endless marches eastward lie,
Whereon looks down a ghostly sky.
A house stands gray and all alone
Upon a hill, as dim of tone,
And lonely, as a lonely stone.
There are no signs of life about:
No barnyard bustle, cry and shout
Of children who run laughing out.
No crow of cocks, no low of cows,
No sheep-bell tinkling under boughs
Of beech, or song in garth or house.
Only the curlew's mournful call,
Circling the sky at evenfall,
And loon lamenting over all.
A garden, where the sunflower dies
Love should perish at our hands.
Young the Knight was. He should sing
Nevermore of love or spring,
Or of any gentle thing.
When he stole at midnight's hour,
To my Lady's forest bower,
We were hidden near the tower.
In the woods of Trebizend
There he met an evil end. —
Night, you know, is no man's friend.
He has fought in fort and field;
Borne for years a stainless shield,
And in strength to none would yield.
But we seized him unaware,
Bound and hung him; stripped him bare,
Left him to the wild boars there.
Never has my Lady known. —
But she often sits alone,
Weeping when my Lord is gone…
Night, they say, is no man's friend. —
In the woods of Trebizend
There he met an evil end.
Now my old Lord sleeps in peace,
While my Lady – each one sees —
Waits, and keeps her memories.
GHOSTS
Low, weed-climbed cliffs, o'er which at noon
The sea-mists swoon:
Wind-twisted pines, through which the crow
Goes winging slow:
Dim fields, the sower never sows,
Or reaps or mows:
And near the sea a ghostly house of stone
Where all is old and lone.
A garden, falling in decay,
Where statues gray
Peer, broken, out of tangled weed
And thorny seed:
Satyr and Nymph, that once made love
By walk and grove:
And, near a fountain, shattered, green with mold,
A sundial, lichen-old.
Like some sad life bereft,
To musing left,
The house stands: love and youth
Both gone, in sooth:
But still it sits and dreams:
And round it seems
Some memory of the past, still young and fair,
Haunting each crumbling stair.
And suddenly one dimly sees,
Come through the trees,
A woman, like a wild moss-rose:
A man, who goes
Softly: and by the dial
They kiss a while:
Then drowsily the mists blow round them, wan,
And they, like ghosts, are gone.
THE LONELY LAND
A river binds the lonely land,
A river like a silver band,
To crags and shores of yellow sand.
It is a place where kildees cry,
And endless marches eastward lie,
Whereon looks down a ghostly sky.
A house stands gray and all alone
Upon a hill, as dim of tone,
And lonely, as a lonely stone.
There are no signs of life about:
No barnyard bustle, cry and shout
Of children who run laughing out.
No crow of cocks, no low of cows,
No sheep-bell tinkling under boughs
Of beech, or song in garth or house.
Only the curlew's mournful call,
Circling the sky at evenfall,
And loon lamenting over all.
A garden, where the sunflower dies
Другие электронные книги автора Madison Cawein
Последний отзыв
книга нужная