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قراءة كتاب Matins
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اللغة: English
الصفحة رقم: 6
class="line">And all your hair
Know the soft stirring of an alien breath
From out the mouth of Death,
Would ye not then have memory of these
And how their pain was great?
Would ye not wish to hear among the trees
The wind in his great might,
And on the roof the rain's unending harmonies?
For when could death be more desired by us
(Oh, follow, Death, I pray thee, with the Fall!)
Than when the night
Is heavy with the wet wind born of rain?
When flowers are yellow, and the growing grass
Is not yet tall,
Or when all living things are harvested
And with bright gold the hills are glorious,
Or when all colors have faded from our sight
And all is gray that late was gold and red?
Have ye not lain awake the long night through
And listened to the falling of the rain
On fallen leaves, withered and brown and dead?
Have none of you,
Hearing its ceaseless sound, been comforted
And made forgetful of the day's live pain?
Even Thou, who wept because the dark was great
Once, and didst pray that dawn might come again,
Has noon not seemed to be a dreaded thing
And night a thing not wholly desolate
And Death thy soul's supremest sun-rising?
Did not thy hearing strain
To catch the moaning of the wind-swept sea,
Where great tides be,
And swift, white rain?
Did not its far exulting teach thy soul
That of all things the sea alone is free
And under no control?
Its liberty,—
Was it not most desired by thy soul?
I say,
The Earth is alway glad, yea, and the sea
Is glad alway
When the rain cometh; either tranquilly
As at the first dawn of a summer day
Or in late autumn wildly passionate,
Or when all things are all disconsolate
Because that Winter has been long their king,
Or in the Spring.
—Therefore let now your joyful thanksgiving
Be heard on Earth because the Rain hath come!
While land and sea give praise, shall ye be dumb?
Shall ye alone await the sun-shining?
Your days, perchance, have many joys to bring;
Perchance with woes they shall be burthensome;
Yet when night cometh, and ye journey home,
Weary, and sore, and stained with travelling,
When ye seek out your homes because the night—
The last, dark night—falls swift across your path,
And on Life's altar your last day lies slain,
Will ye not cry aloud with that new might
One dying with great things unfinished hath,
"O God! if Thou wouldst only send Thy Rain!"
A MEMORY
You are not with me though the Spring is here!And yet it seemed to-day as if the SpringWere the same one that in an ancient yearCame suddenly upon our wandering.You must remember all that chanced that day.Can you forget the shy awaking callOf the first robin?—And the foolish wayThe squirrel ran along the low stone wall?The half-retreating sound of water breaking,Hushing, falling; while the pine-laden breezeTold us the tumult many crows were makingAmid innumerable distant trees;The certain presence of the birth of thingsAround, above, beneath, us,—everywhere;The soft return of immemorial SpringsThrilling with life the fragrant forest air;All these were with us then. Can you forget?Or must you—even as I—remember well?To-day, all these were with me, there,—and yetThey seemed to have some bitter thing to tell;They looked with questioning eyes, and seemed to waitOne's doubtful coming whom of old they knew;Till, seeing me alone and desolate,They learned how vain was strong desire of you.