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Or save a fallen soul, needs but one ray
Of Heaven's sunshine, or of human love.
W.C.K. WILDE.
MORNING
("L'aurore s'allume.")
{XX. a, December, 1834.}
Morning glances hither,
Now the shade is past;
Dream and fog fly thither
Where Night goes at last;
Open eyes and roses
As the darkness closes;
And the sound that grows is
Nature walking fast.
Murmuring all and singing,
Hark! the news is stirred,
Roof and creepers clinging,
Smoke and nest of bird;
Winds to oak-trees bear it,
Streams and fountains hear it,
Every breath and spirit
As a voice is heard.
All takes up its story,
Child resumes his play,
Hearth its ruddy glory,
Lute its lifted lay.
Wild or out of senses,
Through the world immense is
Sound as each commences
Schemes of yesterday.
W.M. HARDINGE.
SONG OF LOVE
("S'il est un charmant gazon.")
{XXII, Feb. 18, 1834.}
If there be a velvet sward
By dewdrops pearly drest,
Where through all seasons fairies guard
Flowers by bees carest,
Where one may gather, day and night,
Roses, honeysuckle, lily white,
I fain would make of it a site
For thy foot to rest.
If there be a loving heart
Where Honor rules the breast,
Loyal and true in every part,
That changes ne'er molest,
Eager to run its noble race,
Intent to do some work of grace,
I fain would make of it a place
For thy brow to rest.
And if there be of love a dream
Rose-scented as the west,
Which shows, each time it comes, a gleam, —
A something sweet and blest, —
A dream of which heaven is the pole,
A dream that mingles soul and soul,
I fain of it would make the goal
Where thy mind should rest.
TORU DUTT.
SWEET CHARMER.{1}
("L'aube naît et ta porte est close.")
{XXIII., February, 18 – .}
Though heaven's gate of light uncloses,
Thou stirr'st not – thou'rt laid to rest,
Waking are thy sister roses,
One only dreamest on thy breast.
Hear me, sweet dreamer!
Tell me all thy fears,
Trembling in song,
But to break in tears.
Lo! to greet thee, spirits pressing,
Soft music brings the gentle dove,
And fair light falleth like a blessing,
While my poor heart can bring thee only love.
Worship thee, angels love thee, sweet woman?
Yes; for that love perfects my soul.
None the less of heaven that my heart is human,
Blent in one exquisite, harmonious whole.
H.B. FARNIE.
Of Heaven's sunshine, or of human love.
W.C.K. WILDE.
MORNING
("L'aurore s'allume.")
{XX. a, December, 1834.}
Morning glances hither,
Now the shade is past;
Dream and fog fly thither
Where Night goes at last;
Open eyes and roses
As the darkness closes;
And the sound that grows is
Nature walking fast.
Murmuring all and singing,
Hark! the news is stirred,
Roof and creepers clinging,
Smoke and nest of bird;
Winds to oak-trees bear it,
Streams and fountains hear it,
Every breath and spirit
As a voice is heard.
All takes up its story,
Child resumes his play,
Hearth its ruddy glory,
Lute its lifted lay.
Wild or out of senses,
Through the world immense is
Sound as each commences
Schemes of yesterday.
W.M. HARDINGE.
SONG OF LOVE
("S'il est un charmant gazon.")
{XXII, Feb. 18, 1834.}
If there be a velvet sward
By dewdrops pearly drest,
Where through all seasons fairies guard
Flowers by bees carest,
Where one may gather, day and night,
Roses, honeysuckle, lily white,
I fain would make of it a site
For thy foot to rest.
If there be a loving heart
Where Honor rules the breast,
Loyal and true in every part,
That changes ne'er molest,
Eager to run its noble race,
Intent to do some work of grace,
I fain would make of it a place
For thy brow to rest.
And if there be of love a dream
Rose-scented as the west,
Which shows, each time it comes, a gleam, —
A something sweet and blest, —
A dream of which heaven is the pole,
A dream that mingles soul and soul,
I fain of it would make the goal
Where thy mind should rest.
TORU DUTT.
SWEET CHARMER.{1}
("L'aube naît et ta porte est close.")
{XXIII., February, 18 – .}
Though heaven's gate of light uncloses,
Thou stirr'st not – thou'rt laid to rest,
Waking are thy sister roses,
One only dreamest on thy breast.
Hear me, sweet dreamer!
Tell me all thy fears,
Trembling in song,
But to break in tears.
Lo! to greet thee, spirits pressing,
Soft music brings the gentle dove,
And fair light falleth like a blessing,
While my poor heart can bring thee only love.
Worship thee, angels love thee, sweet woman?
Yes; for that love perfects my soul.
None the less of heaven that my heart is human,
Blent in one exquisite, harmonious whole.
H.B. FARNIE.
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Последний отзыв
Классная книга. Очень многое объясняет, что скрытое реально происходит в человеке