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قراءة كتاب Eidola
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اللغة: English
الصفحة رقم: 2
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EIDOLA
THE CHOOSERS
O ye! Fragile, tremulous
Haunters of the deep glades,
Whose fingers part the leaves
Of beech and aspen ere ye slip thro’,
Shall I see ye again?
Haunters of the deep glades,
Whose fingers part the leaves
Of beech and aspen ere ye slip thro’,
Shall I see ye again?
Men have said unto me:
These are but flying lights and shadows,
Light on the beech-boles, clouds shadowing the corn-fields,
The wind in the flame of birches in autumn,
Wind shadowing the clear pools.
But ye cried, laughing, down the wind:
Men are but shadows, but a vain breath!
These are but flying lights and shadows,
Light on the beech-boles, clouds shadowing the corn-fields,
The wind in the flame of birches in autumn,
Wind shadowing the clear pools.
But ye cried, laughing, down the wind:
Men are but shadows, but a vain breath!
So here cometh unto me
That cry from the rejoicing air:
Men are but shadows! And prone about me
I see them, hushed and sleeping in the hut,
Made solemn and holy by the night,
In the dead light o’ the moon:
Shadowy, swathed in their blankets,
As sleep, in hewn sepulchral caves,
Egypt’s and Asia’s kings.
While between them are the footsteps
Of glittering presences, who say: Lo, one
To be a sword upon my thigh!
And the sleepers stir restlessly and murmur
As between them pass
The bright-mailed choosers of the dead.
That cry from the rejoicing air:
Men are but shadows! And prone about me
I see them, hushed and sleeping in the hut,
Made solemn and holy by the night,
In the dead light o’ the moon:
Shadowy, swathed in their blankets,
As sleep, in hewn sepulchral caves,
Egypt’s and Asia’s kings.
While between them are the footsteps
Of glittering presences, who say: Lo, one
To be a sword upon my thigh!
And the sleepers stir restlessly and murmur
As between them pass
The bright-mailed choosers of the dead.
Shall I see ye again, O flying feet
O’ the forest-haunters, while I couch silent,
In a wet brake o’ blossom,
Dark ivy wreathing your whiteness;
Ere I am torn from the scabbard:
(Lo, one
To be a sword upon my thigh!)
Knowing no longer that earth
Lieth in the dews, shining and sacred?
O’ the forest-haunters, while I couch silent,
In a wet brake o’ blossom,
Dark ivy wreathing your whiteness;
Ere I am torn from the scabbard:
(Lo, one
To be a sword upon my thigh!)
Knowing no longer that earth
Lieth in the dews, shining and sacred?
SACRIFICE
Love suffereth all things.
And we,
Out of the travail and pain of our striving,
Bring unto thee the perfect prayer:
For the heart of no man uttereth love,
Suffering even for love’s sake.
And we,
Out of the travail and pain of our striving,
Bring unto thee the perfect prayer:
For the heart of no man uttereth love,
Suffering even for love’s sake.
For us no splendid apparel of pageantry,
Burnished breast-plates, scarlet banners and trumpets
Sounding exultantly.
But the mean things of the earth hast thou chosen,
Decked them with suffering,
Made them beautiful with the passion for rightness,
Strong with the pride of love.
Burnished breast-plates, scarlet banners and trumpets
Sounding exultantly.
But the mean things of the earth hast thou chosen,
Decked them with suffering,
Made them beautiful with the passion for rightness,
Strong with the pride of love.
Yea, tho’ our praise of thee slayeth us,
Yet love shall exalt us beside thee triumphant,
Dying, that these live:
And the earth again be beautiful with orchards,
Yellow with wheatfields,
And the lips of others praise thee, tho’ our lips
Be stopped with earth, and songless.
Yet love shall exalt us beside thee triumphant,
Dying, that these live:
And the earth again be beautiful with orchards,
Yellow with wheatfields,
And the lips of others praise thee, tho’ our lips
Be stopped with earth, and songless.
But we shall have brought thee their praises,
Brought unto thee the perfect prayer:
For the lips of no man uttereth love,
Suffering even for love’s sake.
Brought unto thee the perfect prayer:
For the lips of no man uttereth love,
Suffering even for love’s sake.
O God of sorrows,
Whose feet come softly thro’ the dews,
Stoop thou unto us,
For we die so thou livest,
Our hearts the cups of thy vintage:
And the lips of no man uttereth love,
Whose feet come softly thro’ the dews,
Stoop thou unto us,
For we die so thou livest,
Our hearts the cups of thy vintage:
And the lips of no man uttereth love,