قراءة كتاب In the Great Steep's Garden
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
اللغة: English
الصفحة رقم: 2
gladdens the hills in June,
And Columbine waltzes a gypsy tune;
Or deep in the pleasance, happily met,
She whirls with a gay little pirouette,
Where the long trees lean in a twilight trance,
Dreaming her over the seas to France.
Or quiet under the aspen’s shade,
Misty-eyed little pensive maid,
Musing under the Great Steep’s tree,
Is it for Pierrot?—where is he?
Misty-eyed little pensive maid,
Musing under the Great Steep’s tree,
Is it for Pierrot?—where is he?
A flutter of petticoats, buff and blue,
Sashes and streamers and holiday tire,
Columbine trips her a measure for you,
Gayest heart of the waltzing choir.
Under the pines I saw her dance,
Lilting a gay little tune of France.
Sashes and streamers and holiday tire,
Columbine trips her a measure for you,
Gayest heart of the waltzing choir.
Under the pines I saw her dance,
Lilting a gay little tune of France.
Saxifrage.
The wide, wide sky was a crystal clear,
A great blue dome that quivered near.
A great blue dome that quivered near.
And oh, the white-flowered miracle grown
Out of the broad gray breast of a stone!
Out of the broad gray breast of a stone!
Little plant, did you guess that when I heard
You whisper your one sweet rune-telling word,
You whisper your one sweet rune-telling word,
Straight into the crystal I could see,
And the Heart of the Sky leaned down to me?
And the Heart of the Sky leaned down to me?
Alpine Forget-Me-Not.
Before earth’s dawn hour thought to wane,
Where Paradise leaned over Iran’s plain,
A man god looked from his templed fane
On a maiden wondrously fair:
He saw her first in the Cashmere’s danks,
Singing at dawn by a river’s banks,
Where the long grass leaned to her, ranks on ranks,
Forget-me-nots twined in her hair.
Where Paradise leaned over Iran’s plain,
A man god looked from his templed fane
On a maiden wondrously fair:
He saw her first in the Cashmere’s danks,
Singing at dawn by a river’s banks,
Where the long grass leaned to her, ranks on ranks,
Forget-me-nots twined in her hair.
O night of sorrow in Cashmere’s fen—
For a god may not wed with a maid of men—
Driven in wrath was the man god then
From the genii’s holy mirth,
Till the river-maid’s hand shall scatter and pour
The seeds of the little blue flowers she wore,
From the happy lintels of heaven’s own door
To the uttermost ends of the earth.
For a god may not wed with a maid of men—
Driven in wrath was the man god then
From the genii’s holy mirth,
Till the river-maid’s hand shall scatter and pour
The seeds of the little blue flowers she wore,
From the happy lintels of heaven’s own door
To the uttermost ends of the earth.
The Great Steep’s Garden is musked and fair:
Araby-sweet is the spice on the air:
Ah, softly tread, have gentle care,
Love’s handmaid has passed this way.
Did the long miles fret or the red suns beat?
Did the great
Araby-sweet is the spice on the air:
Ah, softly tread, have gentle care,
Love’s handmaid has passed this way.
Did the long miles fret or the red suns beat?
Did the great
