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قراءة كتاب A Dark Month From Swinburne's Collected Poetical Works Vol. V

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A Dark Month
From Swinburne's Collected Poetical Works Vol. V

A Dark Month From Swinburne's Collected Poetical Works Vol. V

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دار النشر: Project Gutenberg
الصفحة رقم: 5

class="i0">May worship a star by night.

As a flock that a wolf is upon
My songs take flight and are gone:
No heart is in any to sing
Aught but the praise of my king.
Fain would I once and again
Sing deeds and passions of men:
But ever a child's head gleams
Between my work and my dreams.
Between my hand and my eyes
The lines of a small face rise,
And the lines I trace and retrace
Are none but those of the face.

XVI

Till the tale of all this flock of days alike
All be done,
Weary days of waiting till the month's hand strike
Thirty-one,
Till the clock's hand of the month break off, and end
With the clock,
Till the last and whitest sheep at last be penned
Of the flock,
I their shepherd keep the count of night and day
With my song,
Though my song be, like this month which once was May,
All too long.

XVII

The incarnate sun, a tall strong youth,
On old Greek eyes in sculpture smiled:
But trulier had it given the truth
To shape him like a child.
No face full-grown of all our dearest
So lightens all our darkness, none
Most loved of all our hearts hold nearest
To far outshines the sun,
As when with sly shy smiles that feign
Doubt if the hour be clear, the time
Fit to break off my work again
Or sport of prose or rhyme,
My friend peers in on me with merry
Wise face, and though the sky stay dim
The very light of day, the very
Sun's self comes in with him.

XVIII

Out of sight,
Out of mind!
Could the light
Prove unkind?
Can the sun
Quite forget
What was done
Ere he set?
Does the moon
When she wanes
Leave no tune
That remains
In the void
Shell of night
Overcloyed
With her light?
Must the shore
At low tide
Feel no more
Hope or pride,
No intense
Joy to be,
In the sense
Of the sea—
In the pulses
Of her shocks
It repulses,
When its rocks
Thrill and ring
As with glee?
Has my king
Cast off me,
Whom no bird
Flying south
Brings one word
From his mouth?
Not the ghost
Of a word.
Riding post
Have I heard,
Since the day
When my king
Took away
With him spring,
And the cup
Of each flower
Shrivelled up
That same hour,
With no light
Left behind.
Out of sight,
Out of mind!

XIX

Because I adore you
And fall
On the knees of my spirit before you—
After all,
You need not insult,
My king,
With neglect, though your spirit exult
In the spring,
Even me, though not worth,
God knows,
One word of you sent me in mirth,
Or one rose
Out of all in your garden
That grow
Where the frost and the wind never harden
Flakes of snow,
Nor ever is rain
At all,
But the roses rejoice to remain
Fair and tall—
The roses of love,
More sweet
Than blossoms that rain from above
Round our feet,
When under high bowers
We pass,
Where the west wind freckles with flowers
All the grass.
But a child's thoughts bear
More bright
Sweet visions by day, and more fair
Dreams by night,
Than summer's whole treasure
Can be:
What am I that his thought should take pleasure,
Then, in me?

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