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قراءة كتاب Over the Brazier

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‏اللغة: English
Over the Brazier

Over the Brazier

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دار النشر: Project Gutenberg
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mosses—

Softly now his spirit passes
As the bee forsakes the lily,
As the berry leaves the holly;
But the fauns still think him living,
And with bay leaves they are weaving
Crowns to deck him. Well they may!
He was worthy of the Bay.

WILLAREE

On the rough mountain wind
That blows so free
Rides a little storm-sprite
Whose name is Willaree.
The fleecy cloudlets are not his,
No shepherd is he,
For he drives the shaggy thunderclouds
Over land and sea.
His home is on the mountain-top
Where I love to be,
Amid grey rocks and brambles
And the red rowan-tree.
He whistles down the chimney,
He whistles to me,
And I send greeting back to him
Whistling cheerily.
The great elms are battling,
Waves are on the sea,
Loud roars the mountain-wind—
God rest you, Willaree!

THE FACE OF THE HEAVENS

Little winds in a hurry,
Great winds over the sky,
Clouds sleek or furry,
Storms that rage and die,
The whole cycle of weather
From calm to hurricane
Of four gales wroth together,
Thunder, lightning, rain,
The burning sun, snowing,
Hailstones pattering down,
Blue skies and red skies showing,
Skies with a black frown,
By these signs and wonders
You may tell God's mood:
He shines, rains, thunders,
But all His works are good.

JOLLY YELLOW MOON

Oh, now has faded from the West
A sunset red as wine,
And beast and bird are hushed to rest
When the jolly yellow moon doth shine.
Come comrades, roam we round the mead
Where couch the sleeping kine;
The breath of night blows soft indeed,
And the jolly yellow moon doth shine.
And step we slowly, friend with friend,
Let arm with arm entwine.
And voice with voice together blend,
For the jolly yellow moon doth shine.
Whether we loudly sing or soft,
The tune goes wondrous fine;
Our chorus sure will float aloft
Where the jolly yellow moon doth shine.

YOUTH AND FOLLY

("Life is a very awful thing! You young fellows are too busy being jolly to realize the folly of your lives."

A Charterhouse Sermon)

In Chapel often when I bawl
The hymns, to show I'm musical,
With bright eye and cheery voice
Bidding Christian folk rejoice,
Shame be it said, I've not a thought
Of the One Being whom I ought
To worship: with unwitting roar
Other godheads I adore.
I celebrate the Gods of Mirth
And Love and Youth and Springing Earth,
Bacchus, beautiful, divine,
Gulping down his heady wine,
Dear Pan piping in his hollow,
Fiery-headed King Apollo
And rugged Atlas all aloof
Holding up the purple roof.
I have often felt and sung,
"It's a good thing to be young:
Though the preacher says it's folly,
Is it foolish to be jolly?"
I have often prayed in fear,
"Let me never grow austere;
Let me never think, I pray,
Too much about Judgment Day;
Never, never feel in Spring,
'Life's a very awful thing!'"
Then I realize and start
And curse my arrogant young heart,
Bind it over to confess
Its horrible ungodliness,
Set myself penances, and sigh
That I was born in sin, and try
To find the whole world vanity.

GHOST MUSIC

Gloomy and bare the organ-loft,
Bent-backed and blind the organist.
From rafters looming shadowy,
From the pipes' tuneful company,
Drifted together drowsily,
Innumerable, formless, dim,
The ghosts of long-dead melodies,
Of anthems, stately, thunderous,
Of Kyries shrill and tremulous:
In melancholy drowsy-sweet
They huddled there in harmony,
Like bats at noontide rafter-hung.

FREE VERSE

I now delight,
In spite
Of the might
And the right
Of classic tradition,
In writing
And reciting
Straight ahead,
Without let or omission,
Just any little rhyme
In any little

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