قراءة كتاب The Loom of Life
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اللغة: English
الصفحة رقم: 4
the mocking bird trilled,
And the landscape is dead where once the heart thrilled
At wildwood and picturesque scenery.
The opera may boast the diva of song,
To me she makes no appeal;
To flute obligato my heart is still dumb,
But oh! for the song and musical hum
Of Ruth and the Old Spinning Wheel!
She lived but a simple, plain rustic life,
Yet charming in sooth was her beauty.
In her untutored heart was love ever rife,
The seat of no conflict, no struggle or strife
'Twixt a selfish will and duty.
I bow at her altar of beauty and truth,
At the shrine of her heart do I kneel,
With a prayer no mortal ever lifted above,
Till my soul is atune with the music of love
She sings to the Old Spinning Wheel!
Yet charming in sooth was her beauty.
In her untutored heart was love ever rife,
The seat of no conflict, no struggle or strife
'Twixt a selfish will and duty.
I bow at her altar of beauty and truth,
At the shrine of her heart do I kneel,
With a prayer no mortal ever lifted above,
Till my soul is atune with the music of love
She sings to the Old Spinning Wheel!
This unlettered maiden was poor, but high-bred,
Oh, women of fashion far above you!
And I thrilled at the graceful poise of her head
And the radiant smile of my love when she said,
"Why James, you know that I love you."
Nymph-like her lithe form swayed as in dance,
I awkwardly sat at the reel—
A moment's surcease of monotonous thrum,—
Melodious the lull in the song and the hum
Of Ruth and the Old Spinning Wheel!
Oh, women of fashion far above you!
And I thrilled at the graceful poise of her head
And the radiant smile of my love when she said,
"Why James, you know that I love you."
Nymph-like her lithe form swayed as in dance,
I awkwardly sat at the reel—
A moment's surcease of monotonous thrum,—
Melodious the lull in the song and the hum
Of Ruth and the Old Spinning Wheel!
The glow of the incandescent light
Has banished the tallow candle;
And the ox-cart is gone at steam's rapid flight,
But Love is too subtle, is too recondite
For Learning or Genius to handle.
All honor to Science, let her keep her mad pace,
I abate not a tittle her zeal;
But the splendors of life can never efface
The picture of Ruth in plain rustic grace
Who wrought at the Old Spinning Wheel!
Has banished the tallow candle;
And the ox-cart is gone at steam's rapid flight,
But Love is too subtle, is too recondite
For Learning or Genius to handle.
All honor to Science, let her keep her mad pace,
I abate not a tittle her zeal;
But the splendors of life can never efface
The picture of Ruth in plain rustic grace
Who wrought at the Old Spinning Wheel!
THE OLD WATER MILL
'Twas grinding day at the Old Water Mill,
But holiday with me,
For I knew ere I reached the foot of the hill
And heard the voice of the happy rill,
The miller's beautiful child was there
That wore the tresses of sun-lit hair
And smile of witchery;
And the twittering swallows awhirl in the air,
Told in their ecstacy
That Rachel, the Golden Daffodil,
Was blooming again by the Old Water Mill.
But holiday with me,
For I knew ere I reached the foot of the hill
And heard the voice of the happy rill,
The miller's beautiful child was there
That wore the tresses of sun-lit hair
And smile of witchery;
And the twittering swallows awhirl in the air,
Told in their ecstacy
That Rachel, the Golden Daffodil,
Was blooming again by the Old Water Mill.
Together we cross the moss-covered log
That spans the old mill race,
And we hear through the mists and rising fog
The boom of the dam, the croak of the frog,
That wakes, on the banks of the glinting stream,
The violet tranced in her winter dream,
Where lights and shadows lace;
And the cowslip, like the meteor's gleam,
Darts from her hiding-place,
While the cataracts leap in their haste to fill
The floats of the wheel at the Old Water Mill.
That spans the old mill race,
And we hear through the mists and rising fog
The boom of the dam, the croak of the frog,
That wakes, on the banks of the glinting stream,
The violet tranced in her winter dream,
Where lights and shadows lace;
And the cowslip, like the meteor's gleam,
Darts from her hiding-place,
While the cataracts leap in their haste to fill
The floats of the wheel at the Old Water Mill.
We sit by the dam of the placid stream
And watch the whirl and churn
Of the pouring floods that bubble and steam
And glitter and flash in the bright sunbeam,
While steadily rolls the dripping wheel
That slowly grinds the farmers' meal,
Who restless wait their turn;
But the lights in the miller's face reveal
Never the least concern,
Who takes his toll, and whistles until
The hopper is drained at the Old Water Mill.
And watch the whirl and churn
Of the pouring floods that bubble and steam
And glitter and flash in the bright sunbeam,
While steadily rolls the dripping wheel
That slowly grinds the farmers' meal,
Who restless wait their turn;
But the lights in the miller's face reveal
Never the least concern,
Who takes his toll, and whistles until
The hopper is drained at the Old Water Mill.
To-day we passed where the Old Water Mill
Had stood in the long ago,
But the cataracts leap no more on the hill,
And the boom of the roaring dam is still,
For the gleaming stream in its grief went dry,
When the ruthless hand of Art passed by
And laid the Old Mill low;
And the violets, cold in death, now lie
Wrapped in the glistening snow;
And the biting air is crisp and chill
Around the ruins of the Old Water Mill.
Had stood in the long ago,
But the cataracts leap no more on the hill,
And the boom of the roaring dam is still,
For the gleaming stream in its grief went dry,
When the ruthless hand of Art passed by
And laid the Old Mill low;
And the violets, cold in death, now lie
Wrapped in the glistening snow;
And the biting air is crisp and chill
Around the ruins of the Old Water Mill.
And now we sit by the River of Time
And gaze at the waves below,
But its brink is covered by frost and rime,
And we hear on the wind a muffled chime
Proclaiming the end of a brief sojourn:
Yet the floods of life still whirl and churn
As the currents ebb and flow:—
By the rolling wheel we wait our turn
Calm, but ready to go!
The hopper is drained, but unmoved still,
The Miller who grinds in Time's Water Mill.
And gaze at the waves below,
But its brink is covered by frost and rime,
And we hear on the wind a muffled chime
Proclaiming the end of a brief sojourn:
Yet the floods of life still whirl and churn
As the currents ebb and flow:—
By the rolling wheel we wait our turn
Calm, but ready to go!
The hopper is drained, but unmoved still,
The Miller who grinds in Time's Water Mill.
WATERLOO
A meeting-house, no church at all,
With stained cathedral glass,
With lofty spire and arching hall,
And terraced lawns of grass:
No organ peals, no chanting choir,
No frescoed walls that men admire
Had this old meeting-house;
But roses wild their petals piled
About its sacred door,
And locust bloom shed rich perfume,
Upon the air, galore,
Around the meeting-house.
With stained cathedral glass,
With lofty spire and arching hall,
And terraced lawns of grass:
No organ peals, no chanting choir,
No frescoed walls that men admire
Had this old meeting-house;
But roses wild their petals piled
About its sacred door,
And locust bloom shed rich perfume,
Upon the air, galore,
Around the meeting-house.
It stood upon a limpid stream
My childhood thought divine,
Whose waters pure did ever gleam
Like shimmering shine of wine;
It stood, alas! but stands no more
Upon the bank or pebbly shore
Of sunny Pleasant Run;
Yet in my
My childhood thought divine,
Whose waters pure did ever gleam
Like shimmering shine of wine;
It stood, alas! but stands no more
Upon the bank or pebbly shore
Of sunny Pleasant Run;
Yet in my