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قراءة كتاب Poems Third Edition
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اللغة: English
الصفحة رقم: 3
white upon the churchyard sod,
Sweet tears, the clouds lean down and give.
This world is very lovely. O my God,
I thank Thee that I live!
Ringed with his flaming guards of many kinds,
The proud Sun stoops his golden head,
Grey Eve sobs crazed with grief; to her the winds
Shriek out, "The Day is dead."
The proud Sun stoops his golden head,
Grey Eve sobs crazed with grief; to her the winds
Shriek out, "The Day is dead."
I gave this beggar Day no alms, this Night
Has seen nor work accomplished, planned,
Yet this poor Day shall soon in memory's light
A summer rainbow stand!
Has seen nor work accomplished, planned,
Yet this poor Day shall soon in memory's light
A summer rainbow stand!
There is no evil in this present strife;
From th' shivering Seal's low moans,
Up through the shining tiers and ranks of life,
To stars upon their thrones,
From th' shivering Seal's low moans,
Up through the shining tiers and ranks of life,
To stars upon their thrones,
The seeming ills are Loves in dim disguise;
Dark moral knots, that pose the seer,
If we are lovers, in our wider eyes
Shall hang, like dew-drops, clear.
Dark moral knots, that pose the seer,
If we are lovers, in our wider eyes
Shall hang, like dew-drops, clear.
Ye are my menials, ye thick-crowding years!
Ha! yet with a triumphant shout
My spirit shall take captive all the spheres,
And wring their riches out.
Ha! yet with a triumphant shout
My spirit shall take captive all the spheres,
And wring their riches out.
God! what a glorious future gleams on me;
With nobler senses, nobler peers,
I'll wing me through Creation like a bee,
And taste the gleaming spheres!
With nobler senses, nobler peers,
I'll wing me through Creation like a bee,
And taste the gleaming spheres!
While some are trembling o'er the poison-cup,
While some grow lean with care, some weep,
In this luxurious faith I'll wrap me up,
As in a robe, and sleep.
While some grow lean with care, some weep,
In this luxurious faith I'll wrap me up,
As in a robe, and sleep.
Oh, 'tis a sleeping Poet! and his verse
Sings like the syren-isles. An opulent Soul
Dropt in my path like a great cup of gold,
All rich and rough with stories of the gods!
Methinks all poets should be gentle, fair,
And ever young, and ever beautiful:
I'd have all Poets to be like to this,—
Gold-haired and rosy-lipped, to sing of Love.
Love! Love! Old song that Poet ever chanteth,
Of which the listening world is never weary.
Soul is a moon, Love is its loveliest phase.
Alas! to me this Love will never come
Till summer days shall visit dark December.
Woe's me! 'tis very sad, but 'tis my doom
To hide a ghastly grief within my heart,
And then to coin my lying cheek to smiles,
Sure, smiles become a victim garlanded!
Hist! he awakes——
Sings like the syren-isles. An opulent Soul
Dropt in my path like a great cup of gold,
All rich and rough with stories of the gods!
Methinks all poets should be gentle, fair,
And ever young, and ever beautiful:
I'd have all Poets to be like to this,—
Gold-haired and rosy-lipped, to sing of Love.
Love! Love! Old song that Poet ever chanteth,
Of which the listening world is never weary.
Soul is a moon, Love is its loveliest phase.
Alas! to me this Love will never come
Till summer days shall visit dark December.
Woe's me! 'tis very sad, but 'tis my doom
To hide a ghastly grief within my heart,
And then to coin my lying cheek to smiles,
Sure, smiles become a victim garlanded!
Hist! he awakes——
WALTER (awakening).
Fair lady, in my dream
Methought I was a weak and lonely bird,
In search of summer, wander'd on the sea,
Toiling through mists, drenched by the arrowy rain,
Struck by the heartless winds: at last, methought
I came upon an isle in whose sweet air
I dried my feathers, smoothed my ruffled breast,
And skimmed delight from off the waving woods.
Thy coming, lady, reads this dream of mine:
I am the swallow, thou the summer land.
Methought I was a weak and lonely bird,
In search of summer, wander'd on the sea,
Toiling through mists, drenched by the arrowy rain,
Struck by the heartless winds: at last, methought
I came upon an isle in whose sweet air
I dried my feathers, smoothed my ruffled breast,
And skimmed delight from off the waving woods.
Thy coming, lady, reads this dream of mine:
I am the swallow, thou the summer land.
LADY.
Sweet, sweet is flattery to mortal ears,
And, if I drink thy praise too greedily,
My fault I'll match with grosser instances.
Do not the royal souls that van the world
Hunger for praises? Does not the hero burn
To blow his triumphs in the trumpet's mouth?
And do not poets' brows throb feverous
Till they are cooled with laurels? Therefore, sir,
If such dote more on praise than all the wealth
Of precious-wombèd earth and pearlèd mains,
Blame not the cheeks of simple maidenhood.
Fair sir, I am the empress of this wood!
The courtier oaks bow in proud homages,
And shake down o'er my path their golden leaves.
Queen am I of this green and summer realm.
This wood I've entered oft when all in sheen
The princely Morning walks o'er diamond dews,
And still have lingered, till the vain young Night
Trembles o'er her own beauty in the sea.
And, if I drink thy praise too greedily,
My fault I'll match with grosser instances.
Do not the royal souls that van the world
Hunger for praises? Does not the hero burn
To blow his triumphs in the trumpet's mouth?
And do not poets' brows throb feverous
Till they are cooled with laurels? Therefore, sir,
If such dote more on praise than all the wealth
Of precious-wombèd earth and pearlèd mains,
Blame not the cheeks of simple maidenhood.
Fair sir, I am the empress of this wood!
The courtier oaks bow in proud homages,
And shake down o'er my path their golden leaves.
Queen am I of this green and summer realm.
This wood I've entered oft when all in sheen
The princely Morning walks o'er diamond dews,
And still have lingered, till the vain young Night
Trembles o'er her own beauty in the sea.
WALTER.
And as thou passest some mid-forest glade,
The simple woodman stands amazed, as if
An angel flashed by on his gorgeous wings.
The simple woodman stands amazed, as if
An angel flashed by on his gorgeous wings.
LADY.
I am thine empress. Who and what art thou?
Art thou Sir Bookworm? Haunter of old tomes,
Sitting the silent term of stars to watch
Your own thought passing into beauty, like
An earnest mother watching the first smile
Dawning upon her sleeping infant's face,
Until she cannot see it for her tears?
And when the lark, the laureate of the sun,
Doth climb the east, eager to celebrate
His monarch's crowning, goeth pale to bed,—
Art thou such denizen of book-world, pray?
Art thou Sir Bookworm? Haunter of old tomes,
Sitting the silent term of stars to watch
Your own thought passing into beauty, like
An earnest mother watching the first smile
Dawning upon her sleeping infant's face,
Until she cannot see it for her tears?
And when the lark, the laureate of the sun,
Doth climb the east, eager to celebrate
His monarch's crowning, goeth pale to bed,—
Art thou such denizen of book-world, pray?
WALTER.
Books written when the soul is at spring-tide,
When it is laden like a groaning sky
Before a thunder-storm, are power and gladness,
And majesty and beauty. They seize the reader
As tempests seize a ship, and bear him on
With a wild joy. Some books are drenchèd sands,
On which a great soul's wealth lies all in heaps,
Like a wrecked argosy. What power in books!
They mingle gloom and splendour, as I've oft,
In thund'rous sunsets, seen the
When it is laden like a groaning sky
Before a thunder-storm, are power and gladness,
And majesty and beauty. They seize the reader
As tempests seize a ship, and bear him on
With a wild joy. Some books are drenchèd sands,
On which a great soul's wealth lies all in heaps,
Like a wrecked argosy. What power in books!
They mingle gloom and splendour, as I've oft,
In thund'rous sunsets, seen the