Последний отзыв
Так получилось, что книга ко мне попала в тяжелый эмоциональный кризис и многое мне дала. Написано актуально, тут многих полезных вещей, никакого злоу...
Далее
По всем вопросам обращайтесь на: info@litportal.ru
(©) 2003-2024.
✖
Religious Poems
Настройки чтения
Размер шрифта
Высота строк
Поля
The light and gladness of that better day.
"ONLY A YEAR."
ONE year ago, – a ringing voice,
A clear blue eye,
And clustering curls of sunny hair,
Too fair to die.
Only a year, – no voice, no smile,
No glance of eye,
No clustering curls of golden hair,
Fair but to die!
One year ago, – what loves, what schemes
Far into life!
What joyous hopes, what high resolves,
What generous strife!
The silent picture on the wall,
The burial stone,
Of all that beauty, life, and joy
Remain alone!
One year, – one year, – one little year,
And so much gone!
And yet the even flow of life
Moves calmly on.
The grave grows green, the flowers bloom fair,
Above that head;
No sorrowing tint of leaf or spray
Says he is dead.
No pause or hush of merry birds,
That sing above,
Tells us how coldly sleeps below
The form we love.
Where hast thou been this year, beloved?
What hast thou seen?
What visions fair, what glorious life,
Where thou hast been?
The veil! the veil! so thin, so strong!
'Twixt us and thee;
The mystic veil! when shall it fall,
That we may see?
Not dead, not sleeping, not even gone,
But present still,
And waiting for the coming hour
Of God's sweet will.
Lord of the living and the dead,
Our Saviour dear!
We lay in silence at thy feet
This sad, sad year!
BELOW
LOUDLY sweep the winds of autumn
O'er that lone, beloved grave,
Where we laid those sunny ringlets,
When those blue eyes set like stars,
Leaving us to outer darkness.
O the longing and the aching!
O the sere deserted grave!
Let the grass turn brown upon thee,
Brown and withered like our dreams!
Let the wind moan through the pine-trees
With a dreary, dirge-like whistle,
Sweep the dead leaves on its bosom, —
Moaning, sobbing through the branches,
Where the summer laughed so gayly.
He is gone, our boy of summer, —
Gone the light of his blue eyes,
Gone the tender heart and manly,
Gone the dreams and the aspirings, —
Nothing but the mound remaineth,
And the aching in our bosoms,
Ever aching, ever throbbing:
Who shall bring it unto rest?
ABOVE
A VISION
COMING down a golden street
I beheld my vanished one,
And he moveth on a cloud,
And his forehead wears a star;
And his blue eyes, deep and holy,
Fixed as in a blessed dream,
See some mystery of joy,
Some unuttered depth of love.
And his vesture is as blue
"ONLY A YEAR."
ONE year ago, – a ringing voice,
A clear blue eye,
And clustering curls of sunny hair,
Too fair to die.
Only a year, – no voice, no smile,
No glance of eye,
No clustering curls of golden hair,
Fair but to die!
One year ago, – what loves, what schemes
Far into life!
What joyous hopes, what high resolves,
What generous strife!
The silent picture on the wall,
The burial stone,
Of all that beauty, life, and joy
Remain alone!
One year, – one year, – one little year,
And so much gone!
And yet the even flow of life
Moves calmly on.
The grave grows green, the flowers bloom fair,
Above that head;
No sorrowing tint of leaf or spray
Says he is dead.
No pause or hush of merry birds,
That sing above,
Tells us how coldly sleeps below
The form we love.
Where hast thou been this year, beloved?
What hast thou seen?
What visions fair, what glorious life,
Where thou hast been?
The veil! the veil! so thin, so strong!
'Twixt us and thee;
The mystic veil! when shall it fall,
That we may see?
Not dead, not sleeping, not even gone,
But present still,
And waiting for the coming hour
Of God's sweet will.
Lord of the living and the dead,
Our Saviour dear!
We lay in silence at thy feet
This sad, sad year!
BELOW
LOUDLY sweep the winds of autumn
O'er that lone, beloved grave,
Where we laid those sunny ringlets,
When those blue eyes set like stars,
Leaving us to outer darkness.
O the longing and the aching!
O the sere deserted grave!
Let the grass turn brown upon thee,
Brown and withered like our dreams!
Let the wind moan through the pine-trees
With a dreary, dirge-like whistle,
Sweep the dead leaves on its bosom, —
Moaning, sobbing through the branches,
Where the summer laughed so gayly.
He is gone, our boy of summer, —
Gone the light of his blue eyes,
Gone the tender heart and manly,
Gone the dreams and the aspirings, —
Nothing but the mound remaineth,
And the aching in our bosoms,
Ever aching, ever throbbing:
Who shall bring it unto rest?
ABOVE
A VISION
COMING down a golden street
I beheld my vanished one,
And he moveth on a cloud,
And his forehead wears a star;
And his blue eyes, deep and holy,
Fixed as in a blessed dream,
See some mystery of joy,
Some unuttered depth of love.
And his vesture is as blue
Другие электронные книги автора Гарриет Бичер-Стоу
Другие аудиокниги автора Гарриет Бичер-Стоу
Последний отзыв
Так получилось, что книга ко мне попала в тяжелый эмоциональный кризис и многое мне дала. Написано актуально, тут многих полезных вещей, никакого злоу...
Далее