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The Blue Poetry Book
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All meet whom day and care divide, —
But Leonard tarries long!
Sir W. Scott.
SONG
Orpheus with his lute made trees,
And the mountain tops that freeze,
Bow themselves when he did sing:
To his music, plants and flowers
Ever sprung; as sun and showers
There had made a lasting spring.
Everything that heard him play,
Even the billows of the sea,
Hung their heads, and then lay by.
In sweet music is such art,
Killing care and grief of heart
Fall asleep, or, hearing, die.
W. Shakespeare.
THE TWA CORBIES
As I was walking all alane,
I heard twa corbies making a mane;
The tane unto the t’other say,
‘Whar sall we gang and dine the day?’
’In behint yon auld fail[2 - Fail, ‘turf.’] dyke,
I wot there lies a new-slain knight;
And naebody kens that he lies there
But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair.
’His hound is to the hunting gane,
His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,
His lady’s ta’en another mate,
So we may make our dinner sweet.
’Ye’ll sit on his white hause bane,
And I’ll pike out his bonny blue e’en:
Wi’ ae lock o’ his gowden hair,
We’ll theek our nest when it grows bare.
‘Mony a one for him makes mane,
But nane sall ken whae he is gane:
O’er his white banes, when they are bare,
The wind sall blaw for evermair.’
TO ONE IN PARADISE
I
Thou wast all to me, love,
For which my soul did pine —
A green isle in the sea, love,
A fountain and a shrine,
All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,
And all the flowers were mine.
II
Ah, dream, too bright to last!
Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise
But to be overcast!
A voice from out the Future cries,
‘On! on!’ – but o’er the Past
(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies
Mute, motionless, aghast!
III
For, alas! alas! with me
The light of Life is o’er!
‘No more – no more – no more’ —
(Such language holds the solemn sea
To the sands upon the shore)
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
Or the stricken eagle soar!
IV
And all my days are trances,
And all my nightly dreams
Are where thy dark eye glances,
And where thy footstep gleams;
In what ethereal dances,
By what eternal streams.
E. A. Poe.
HYMN TO DIANA
Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair.
Now the sun is laid to sleep,
Seated in thy silver chair,
State in wonted manner keep:
Hesperus entreats thy light,
Goddess excellently bright.
But Leonard tarries long!
Sir W. Scott.
SONG
Orpheus with his lute made trees,
And the mountain tops that freeze,
Bow themselves when he did sing:
To his music, plants and flowers
Ever sprung; as sun and showers
There had made a lasting spring.
Everything that heard him play,
Even the billows of the sea,
Hung their heads, and then lay by.
In sweet music is such art,
Killing care and grief of heart
Fall asleep, or, hearing, die.
W. Shakespeare.
THE TWA CORBIES
As I was walking all alane,
I heard twa corbies making a mane;
The tane unto the t’other say,
‘Whar sall we gang and dine the day?’
’In behint yon auld fail[2 - Fail, ‘turf.’] dyke,
I wot there lies a new-slain knight;
And naebody kens that he lies there
But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair.
’His hound is to the hunting gane,
His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,
His lady’s ta’en another mate,
So we may make our dinner sweet.
’Ye’ll sit on his white hause bane,
And I’ll pike out his bonny blue e’en:
Wi’ ae lock o’ his gowden hair,
We’ll theek our nest when it grows bare.
‘Mony a one for him makes mane,
But nane sall ken whae he is gane:
O’er his white banes, when they are bare,
The wind sall blaw for evermair.’
TO ONE IN PARADISE
I
Thou wast all to me, love,
For which my soul did pine —
A green isle in the sea, love,
A fountain and a shrine,
All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,
And all the flowers were mine.
II
Ah, dream, too bright to last!
Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise
But to be overcast!
A voice from out the Future cries,
‘On! on!’ – but o’er the Past
(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies
Mute, motionless, aghast!
III
For, alas! alas! with me
The light of Life is o’er!
‘No more – no more – no more’ —
(Such language holds the solemn sea
To the sands upon the shore)
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
Or the stricken eagle soar!
IV
And all my days are trances,
And all my nightly dreams
Are where thy dark eye glances,
And where thy footstep gleams;
In what ethereal dances,
By what eternal streams.
E. A. Poe.
HYMN TO DIANA
Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair.
Now the sun is laid to sleep,
Seated in thy silver chair,
State in wonted manner keep:
Hesperus entreats thy light,
Goddess excellently bright.
Другие электронные книги автора Andrew Lang
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