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قراءة كتاب A Little Window
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class="stanza">Some say that it is ugly and hurry on through,
But I love these impressive symbols
Of man’s ingenuity.
Here are the great grain elevators, looming
In tones and shades of grey, veiled
In the clouds of black smoke from the
Tugs at their feet;
Puffing engines shifting strings of cars,
And huge ships nosed in against each other
Or riding at anchor, and canal boats
In straight lines at the docks.
Farther on, across a slip, there are
Mountains of ore in reds and brown,
And pile upon pile of gravel and slag,
And sand in soft saffron hues,
Heaped up for the steel mills to devour;
Those gigantic mills whose tall stacks
Belch varicolored gases, against
The deep blue of the inner harbor,
Where the waves pound in
Over the sea wall.
All this cupped by the towering
City skyscrapers, and outlined against
The peaceful Eden hills,
Miles to the south.
And when I wait for the big bridge to lift
For a freighter with its important tugs,
I pull out of line, off to the side,
And let the other cars go by,
And look, and look.
I never seem to get enough.
From a Train Window
In the Mohawk valley,
Dots of light flashed
And floated off
Into the blackness,
Like sparks of flame
Blasted from the engine.
Then more and more,
Mile after mile,
Almost never ending—
Millions of fire-flies,
Like tiny torches,
Dancing over swamp lands
In the night air.
Scotland
(The Highlands)
Veiled in shifting vapors,
Mountains,
Bleak, foreboding,
Mountains,
Stark and overpowering.
Torrents,
Tumbling, crashing,
Dragging boulders
In their rushing,
Lakes,
Forlorn and lonesome
Heather
In magenta patches,
Sheep, and cattle
Black and somber,
Winding roads
Through massive passes.
Rain,
Sun,
Flowers,
Mist,
Rain,—
Loved Scotland!
Friends
(At Lake Windermere, England)
Lying calm and black
Under the night,
Floats the wail
Of the pipes:
And beyond, loom
Langdale Pikes, dim,
Shadowy sentinels.
Over all, the stars,
Like friends, faithful
And changeless.
A Poem of Color
The perfume of its blossoms mingled with falling petals, floats down to me.
Winged things alight there on the blanket of fragrance above,—a bunting, blue as the sky, a warbler, all gold, an Admiral, wings banded with crimson,
Make a poem of color of the Hawthorn tree.
Dream
(Stratford-on-Avon)
I sat in the churchyard
Of old Trinity. I sat there for hours
On an ancient stone, forgetting time.
The Avon, as silent as the centuries it had known,
Glided past, carrying me on with its memories.
From the lush meadow across the river came the bleating of lambs,
And from the limes floated the song of blackbirds.
All about the scent of roses hung heavy.
Then, over the roof of Trinity, the moon arose.
Shakespeare saw the Avon, thus, and loved it,—
Winding on in the moonlight.
Escape
A cabin,
Mountains, afar and near,
A brook,
Deer, blowing at night.
Perchance,
Rain on the roof,
Then,
The loved books,
A fire on the hearth,
And endless time
To think.
How simple life is!
Question
(Locheven)
The formal garden
With lilac hedges
And vistas of velvet lawn
And marble fountain
Shining pool and
Marble bench o’er-topped
By drooping willow;
Massed color in