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قراءة كتاب The Calendar and Other Verses
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
اللغة: English
الصفحة رقم: 3
calling—"Come!"
And listen!—like a low voice sweetly humming
Is heard the brook within its forest home.
But wait!—We cannot wait—'Twill soon be Summer,
So let us now enjoy these days of June,
For hear ye not that late, but welcome comer,
Robert-of-Lincoln carroling his tune;
And see ye not yon oriole high swinging
His basket from that tall and leafy tree—
O Comrade, Comrade!—Time is swiftly winging,—
'Twill not be always June with you and me;
Spring-time is passing—Summer is a-coming,
And soon fair Autumn with her idle dreams,
And then cold Winter, her White hands benumbing
The icy lakes and silent, woodland streams!
So let us now enjoy these days of June,
For hear ye not that late, but welcome comer,
Robert-of-Lincoln carroling his tune;
And see ye not yon oriole high swinging
His basket from that tall and leafy tree—
O Comrade, Comrade!—Time is swiftly winging,—
'Twill not be always June with you and me;
Spring-time is passing—Summer is a-coming,
And soon fair Autumn with her idle dreams,
And then cold Winter, her White hands benumbing
The icy lakes and silent, woodland streams!
O Comrade!—Comrade!—let us not be weary,
But pick life's pretty blossoms while they bloom,
Forgetting every prospect, sad or dreary,
Avoiding every lane that leads to gloom!
For see!—each flower lifts a golden chalice
Inviting us to drink—Shall we pass by,
With faces sad, nor enter this fair palace
That June has rear'd us 'neath a cloudless sky?
But pick life's pretty blossoms while they bloom,
Forgetting every prospect, sad or dreary,
Avoiding every lane that leads to gloom!
For see!—each flower lifts a golden chalice
Inviting us to drink—Shall we pass by,
With faces sad, nor enter this fair palace
That June has rear'd us 'neath a cloudless sky?
PART TWO.
JULY.
Come walk a mile with me—'Tis July weather;
The western sun is burning round and bright,
And not a breeze disturbs yon tiny feather
From a young swallow loosen'd in its flight;
But hark!—in yonder broad and sunlit meadow
The sound of busy mowers fill the air,
While from a tree that casts a pleasing shadow,
Is heard the locust piping shrilly there.
The western sun is burning round and bright,
And not a breeze disturbs yon tiny feather
From a young swallow loosen'd in its flight;
But hark!—in yonder broad and sunlit meadow
The sound of busy mowers fill the air,
While from a tree that casts a pleasing shadow,
Is heard the locust piping shrilly there.
And see, how strong men lift the scented grasses!
And how they pile the wagons with the hay!
How fast the rake, with rolling burden, passes!
How regular the long, round winrows lay!
And see!—the sun—the great round sun is setting,
Like a red rose upon the distant hill,
Till all the earth seems tenderly forgetting
Day's dying light on meadow, lake and rill;
But come!—for darkness soon will gather round us,
And we must pass through yonder woodlands there;
And then white fields of buckwheat will surround us,
And then—then—home we shall together share.
And how they pile the wagons with the hay!
How fast the rake, with rolling burden, passes!
How regular the long, round winrows lay!
And see!—the sun—the great round sun is setting,
Like a red rose upon the distant hill,
Till all the earth seems tenderly forgetting
Day's dying light on meadow, lake and rill;
But come!—for darkness soon will gather round us,
And we must pass through yonder woodlands there;
And then white fields of buckwheat will surround us,
And then—then—home we shall together share.
AUGUST
Come walk a mile with me—'Tis August. Listen!
The meadow-quail is whistling merrily,
And see!—the dew-drops, like great diamonds, glisten
On grass and shrub and bush and bending tree;
And everywhere is peace and joy and plenty,
For everywhere this morning we may go
One seed of Spring has well returned its twenty,
Till Autumn's face with goodness is aglow.
The meadow-quail is whistling merrily,
And see!—the dew-drops, like great diamonds, glisten
On grass and shrub and bush and bending tree;
And everywhere is peace and joy and plenty,
For everywhere this morning we may go
One seed of Spring has well returned its twenty,
Till Autumn's face with goodness is aglow.
Yes, oaten fields are white and ripe for reaping,
And green things paling in the garden there
Tell us too well that Summer is a-sleeping,
And harvest-time is on us unaware;
The early apples even now are falling,
The tassel'd corn, the fields of ripening rye,
The purpling grape—all, all are sadly calling
That Summer's glory, too, must fade and die.
But hark!—what sound is that!—it seems like thunder,
And yet 'tis but the wind, within the trees,—
The far-off wind, fresh-filled with nameless wonder,—
A prophesy of Autumn's freshening breeze.
And green things paling in the garden there
Tell us too well that Summer is a-sleeping,
And harvest-time is on us unaware;
The early apples even now are falling,
The tassel'd corn, the fields of ripening rye,
The purpling grape—all, all are sadly calling
That Summer's glory, too, must fade and die.
But hark!—what sound is that!—it seems like thunder,
And yet 'tis but the wind, within the trees,—
The far-off wind, fresh-filled with nameless wonder,—
A prophesy of Autumn's freshening breeze.
SEPTEMBER
Come walk a mile with me—'Tis sweet September;
And quietly the clouds are gliding by,
And silent runs the brook that, you remember,
We pass'd last Spring—it now is dumb and dry,
And overhead, the first red leaf is falling,
And, underfoot, the flowers are fading fast,
While in the air I hear a strange, sad calling
That tells me Summer is forever past.
And quietly the clouds are gliding by,
And silent runs the brook that, you remember,
We pass'd last Spring—it now is dumb and dry,
And overhead, the first red leaf is falling,
And, underfoot, the flowers are fading fast,
While in the air I hear a strange, sad calling
That tells me Summer is forever past.
And yet how peaceful seems the face of Heaven,
How calm the earth is—Nature is at rest,
And all the hopes that unto Spring were given,
Folds Autumn now in silence to her breast;
The birds are singing, yet not half so sweetly
As when they sung their song at opening Spring,
And flowers are blooming, yet not so completely
As when the birds were first upon the wing;
And I am singing—but the fading glory
Of Autumn-time subdues my idle song,
For what is Autumn but the sweet sad story
Of leaves that fade and lives that last not long.
How calm the earth is—Nature is at rest,
And all the hopes that unto Spring were given,
Folds Autumn now in silence to her breast;
The birds are singing, yet not half so sweetly
As when they sung their song at opening Spring,
And flowers are blooming, yet not so completely
As when the birds were first upon the wing;
And I am singing—but the fading glory
Of Autumn-time subdues my idle song,
For what is Autumn but the sweet sad story
Of leaves that fade and lives that last not long.
OCTOBER
Come walk a mile with me—'Tis now October;
And yet the fields put forth fresh blades of green.
Lest the advancing days shall seem to sober,
And prophesy too plainly the unseen;
For Nature loves to lead us forward blindly,—
Giving a glory to the fading leaf!
Yet were it worse if, speaking less unkindly,
Nature should plainly tell us life is brief.
And yet the fields put forth fresh blades of green.
Lest the advancing days shall seem to sober,
And prophesy too plainly the unseen;
For Nature loves to lead us forward blindly,—
Giving a glory to the fading leaf!
Yet were it worse if, speaking less unkindly,
Nature should plainly tell us life is brief.
The flowers, too, are fading—and are dying,
The leaves are falling, and incessantly,
And on the hills great flocks of crows are crying,
And the blue-jays once more are calling me;
But Winter!—Winter soon, too soon, is coming,
For see!—see there,—the frost is on the grass!
And the wild-bee—I hear no more its humming
As once I did, wherever I might pass;
And robin—he is gone, and all the singing
Of all the sweet birds now no more I hear,
The leaves are falling, and incessantly,
And on the hills great flocks of crows are crying,
And the blue-jays once more are calling me;
But Winter!—Winter soon, too soon, is coming,
For see!—see there,—the frost is on the grass!
And the wild-bee—I hear no more its humming
As once I did, wherever I might pass;
And robin—he is gone, and all the singing
Of all the sweet birds now no more I hear,