You are here
قراءة كتاب A Little Window
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
اللغة: English
الصفحة رقم: 3
lane, hedged high,
An ancient stile,
A rambling path,
A brook,
And musk,—
Golden bells of fragrance,
Fusing all the odors
Of English earth.
I, Too
Robin, robin,
Shouting your song,
Your throat swelling
With joy!
Yes, I hear, I know
What you say.
For I, too,
Would sing
My praise and
Gratitude
To God!
Shouting your song,
Your throat swelling
With joy!
Yes, I hear, I know
What you say.
For I, too,
Would sing
My praise and
Gratitude
To God!
In Early Evening
When I drive through
The villages and the countryside
In early evening,
And see people sitting in gardens
Or at their doors
In peace and contentment,
I long to stop and speak to them.
They might tell me of a loved one
Doing some great work
In a big city,
Or of a deep sorrow,
And I might say a word
To help lighten it.
They might show me treasured china
Or a bit of lace, handmade;
Once some one did.
And I could talk with the children.
I long to do this,
But it always seems
That there is a hurry
To get to the next place.
The villages and the countryside
In early evening,
And see people sitting in gardens
Or at their doors
In peace and contentment,
I long to stop and speak to them.
They might tell me of a loved one
Doing some great work
In a big city,
Or of a deep sorrow,
And I might say a word
To help lighten it.
They might show me treasured china
Or a bit of lace, handmade;
Once some one did.
And I could talk with the children.
I long to do this,
But it always seems
That there is a hurry
To get to the next place.
Fearless Winging
Into Niagara’s abyss of blackness,
Into its cavernous chaos,
I saw birds wing.
Sweeping down
Through the mist
Of its mighty waters,
Undaunted by the roar,
Unmindful of the churning,
Of the terror of its power,
On sure pinions
And happy in flight
They dipped and soared and
Mounted, upward and upward.
Into the light
And the rainbow
Above them.
Into its cavernous chaos,
I saw birds wing.
Sweeping down
Through the mist
Of its mighty waters,
Undaunted by the roar,
Unmindful of the churning,
Of the terror of its power,
On sure pinions
And happy in flight
They dipped and soared and
Mounted, upward and upward.
Into the light
And the rainbow
Above them.
Whimsey
In spring my hemlock
Dances gayly in flounces
Of jade green lace.
Dances gayly in flounces
Of jade green lace.
In summer moonlight
When a soft wind stirs
She dances with a delicate sapling.
They sway and bend in the wind,
And bow to the trees encircling.
I hear the laughter of their leaves.
When a soft wind stirs
She dances with a delicate sapling.
They sway and bend in the wind,
And bow to the trees encircling.
I hear the laughter of their leaves.
In autumn she dances
With beech leaves in her hair,
With beech leaves in her hair,
But in winter I have found her still,
Crouching under a blanket of snow.
Crouching under a blanket of snow.
Remembering
(Locheven)
There is a spot in the woods
That is “forever England” to me.
A clump of beech trees
Steeped in silence,
Whose shade and solitude
Shuts me in with my dreams.
The sunshine slants through
Their limpid leaves
And turns them to translucent jade,
Just as it does in an English spring.
Violets are there, and I pluck them,
Remembering the bluebells
In the beech wood
At Sevenoaks.
That is “forever England” to me.
A clump of beech trees
Steeped in silence,
Whose shade and solitude
Shuts me in with my dreams.
The sunshine slants through
Their limpid leaves
And turns them to translucent jade,
Just as it does in an English spring.
Violets are there, and I pluck them,
Remembering the bluebells
In the beech wood
At Sevenoaks.
Aloofness
Down among the docks and elevators and railroad tracks
On the way out of the city,
I pass a tiny cottage so rickety
That its neighbors crowd close
To hold it up. But there it is,
Its one window shining clean, and glowing
With a plant in a tin can and pure white curtains.
Hanging over the fence and filling the whole place
With its beauty and almost hiding the cottage
Is a peach tree in full bloom.
In the doorway I glimpse a girl
In a purple dress.
But what matters the smoke and the noise and the fog
To the peach tree?
On the way out of the city,
I pass a tiny cottage so rickety
That its neighbors crowd close
To hold it up. But there it is,
Its one window shining clean, and glowing
With a plant in a tin can and pure white curtains.
Hanging over the fence and filling the whole place
With its beauty and almost hiding the cottage
Is a peach tree in full bloom.
In the doorway I glimpse a girl
In a purple dress.
But what matters the smoke and the noise and the fog
To the peach tree?
Listening
(Eden, N. Y.)
Atop Aries hill am I,
The lone flyer, throbbing
Against the sunset
Is higher.
He sees more than I,
But he cannot hear
What I hear.
The lone flyer, throbbing
Against the sunset
Is higher.
He sees more than I,
But he cannot hear
What I hear.
I hear the wood-thrush
And the veery,
Answer each other.
I hear the voices
Of happy children
And the baying of hounds
Float up from the valley;
The chirp of the cricket
At my feet, and, then,
The silence of nightfall.
And the veery,
Answer each other.
I hear the voices
Of happy children
And the baying of hounds
Float up from the valley;
The chirp of the cricket
At my feet, and, then,
The silence of nightfall.
He sees more than I,
But he cannot hear
What I hear.
But he cannot hear
What I hear.
September’s End
In the ash tree
There is a soft rustling,
Lingering, like
There is a soft rustling,
Lingering, like