قراءة كتاب The Sunken Garden and other poems

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قراءة كتاب The Sunken Garden and other poems

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‏اللغة: English

The Sunken Garden and other poems

تقييمك:

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المؤلف:

مصطفى قشنني

دار النشر: Project Gutenberg

الصفحة رقم: 2

tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}a">ALEXANDER

It was the great Alexander, 32 FOR ALL THE GRIEF For all the grief I have given with words 34 FAREWELL When I lie where shades of darkness 35 CLEAR EYES Clear eyes do dim at last, 36 MUSIC When Music sounds, gone is the earth I know, 37 IN A CHURCHYARD As children bidden to go to bed 38 TWO HOUSES In the strange city of life 39 COLOPHON 40

THE LITTLE SALAMANDER: TO MARGOT

WHEN I GO FREE,
I think ’twill be
A night of stars and snow,
And the wild fires of frost shall light
My footsteps as I go;
Nobody—nobody will be there
With groping touch, or sight,
To see me in my bush of hair
Dance burning through the night.

THE SUNKEN GARDEN

SPEAK NOT—WHISPER NOT;
Here bloweth thyme and bergamot;
Softly on the evening hour,
Secret herbs their spices shower,
Dark-spiked rosemary and myrrh,
Lean-stalked, purple lavender;
Hides within her bosom, too,
All her sorrows, bitter rue.

Breathe not—trespass not;
Of this green and darkling spot,
Latticed from the moon’s beams,
Perchance a distant dreamer dreams;
Perchance upon its darkening air,
The unseen ghosts of children fare,
Faintly swinging, sway and sweep,
Like lovely sea-flowers in its deep;
While, unmoved, to watch and ward,
’Mid its gloom’d and daisied sward,
Stands with bowed and dewy head
That one little leaden Lad.

THE RIDDLERS

‘THOU SOLITARY!’ the Blackbird cried,
‘I, from the happy Wren,
Linnet and Blackcap, Woodlark, Thrush,
Perched all upon a sweetbrier bush,
Have come at cold of midnight-tide
To ask thee, Why and when
Grief smote thy heart so thou dost sing
In solemn hush of evening,
So sorrowfully, lovelorn Thing—
Nay, nay, not sing, but rave, but wail,
Most melancholic Nightingale?
Do not the dews of darkness steep
All pinings of the day in sleep?
Why, then, when rocked in starry nest
We mutely couch, secure, at rest,
Doth thy lone heart delight to make
Music for sorrow’s sake?’

A Moon was there. So still her beam,
It seemed the whole world lay a-dream,
Lulled by the watery sea.
And from her leafy night-hung nook
Upon this stranger soft did look
The Nightingale: sighed he:—

‘’Tis strange, my friend; the Kingfisher
But yestermorn conjured me here
Out of his green and gold to say
Why thou, in splendour of the noon
Wearest of colour but golden shoon.
And else dost thee array
In a most sombre suit of black?
“Surely,” he sighed, “some load of grief,
Past all our thinking—and belief—
Must weigh upon his back!”
Do, then, in turn, tell me,—If joy
Thy heart as well as voice employ,
Why dost thou now, most Sable, shine
In plumage

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