قراءة كتاب Poems
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
اللغة: English
الصفحة رقم: 4
bathe in? Guenever,
My Guenever, yet thou wert only mortal—
So too am I; and shall thy every tear
Of anguish well, and I not mark? O hear,
And help me, God, to open wide the portal
Of pardon in my heart for Guenever—
April 10, 1912.
THE DEATH OF THOMAS CHATTERTON
| A gutted wick, still flutteringly aflame Upon a roughened bench—bare walls, bare floor, And glimmering gray of sunrise—yes, and more— Ah, brother, for I call thee by that name— Mine eyes tear-blinded to thy figure came, Thy figure fallen like a flower when hoar Frosts blight. Thy soul wont like the lark to soar The light-flushed dawn, now takes a loftier aim. Thy funeral chant, the slow-entoning wind; Thy churchèd tomb, the pillared vault of morn; Thy requiem, the birds: Thus art thou dead, Pale, spectred want, thy tribute from thy kind; But God, himself, thy dirges shall adorn With sighing psalms of every wind that's sped. May 8, 1912. |
A SPRING SONG
| The air is vibrant with a sensuous charm; The grasses nod, and drowse beneath the sun; Dim, swelling tones upon the breezes run. In soft security from dread alarm, The doves are cooing; and the wind with warm Caress, bears the arbutus' missive, one Love-wrought line of scented rapture, none Subtler to woo the honey-hunting swarm. Let me sigh out my soul in ecstasy, And breathe forth all the fragrance of my being Upon the slowly-stirring summer air; Let me no longer merely scent, hear, see; But one with Nature, in that Law agreeing— That God-willed Law that tincts the Beauty there— May 18, 1912. |
AFTER THE NEO-PLATONISTS
| Night wove her web across the sun that died In crimson colors; velvet-falling gloom Hung curtain-wise, and, like some rich perfume, Formed the soft essence of each wind that sighed. Out of my casement through the dark, I spied The moon afloat in tide of golden spume Like some fair flower opening into bloom; The earth lay dim; the Heavens starry-eyed; And breezes softer than a maiden's breath Hushed all the air. O night, how sweet thy charm! Yet not thy moon, nor stars, nor wind, each one Of these shall pass when we are changed by death— But rather sleep, thou death-in-life, more warm Yet not so sweet as sweet oblivion. September 18, 1912. |
WHAT WOULDST THOU BE?
| What wouldst thou be? A cloud upon the air Of summer skies afloat in sunlit charm, And drinking azure bliss, all free from care, And nestling near the sun's breast rich and warm? What wouldst thou be? A comet, trailing eyes Of thousand terrors through the throbbing night, And filling earth with fear and vague surprise To gaze upon thy bright, liquescent light? What wouldst thou be? A sullen, stalwart cliff Immovable upon a grassy plain, Kissed by no clouds, and cold, and stark, and stiff, Unmelted by the gentle tears of rain? I ask nor to be gay, nor great nor strong— Make me a thought incarnate in some song. May 24, 1912. |