#English #XIXCentury #XXCentury
If I to you but sorrow bring, But aching hours and brackish tear… And that poor drooping Hope whose… Flags ‘neath the weight of cloggin… Then let me in the desert hide
Hail! throstle, by thy ringing voi… Not by the wanderings of the tunel… Now once again where forkëd bough… Lost in green leafage thou dost pe… Trilling, shrilling, far and wide,
Heaven strews the earth with snow, That neither friend nor foe May break the sleep of the fast-dy… A world arrayed in white, Late dawns, and shrouded light,
Why do I sit within the spell Of eyes like thine, who oft have k… What ’tis in Beauty’s gaze to dwe… And then-to feel alone: Back be remitted to my cell,
What is the voice I hear On the wind of the Western Sea? Sentinel, listen from out Cape Cl… And say what the voice may be. ‘'Tis a proud, free people calling…
‘Shepherd swains that feed your fl… ’Mong the grassy-rooted rocks, While I still see sun and moon, Grant to me this simple boon: As I sit on craggy seat,
Beside the Convent Gate I stood, Lingering to take farewell of thos… To whom I owed the simple good Of three days’ peace, three nights… My sumpter-mule did blink and blin…
When piped the love-warm throstle… And all the air was laden With scent of dew and daffodil, I saw a youth and maiden, Whose colour, Spring-like, came a…
In the dark shadow of the windless… Whose gloomy glory lines the obseq… Of the gaunt Claudian Aqueduct al… The lone Campagna to sepulchral R… A Northern youth, companionless,…
Kacelyevo’s slope still felt The cannon’s bolt and the rifles’… For a last redoubt up the hill rem… By the Russ yet held, by the Turk… Mehemet Ali stroked his beard;
Now let no passing-bell be tolled, Wail now no dirge of gloom; Nor around purple pall unfold The trappings of the tomb! Dead? No, the Artist doth not die…
Slow Time, that carrieth such a m… From every stage and hostel of the… Do you not weary of the endless ro… And ask how long Life’s journeyin… Still growing burden on your patie…
My soul is sunk in all-suffusing s… Yet not for any individual sin, But that the world’s original fair… My own land’s most-is not what it… Shrieks of intolerable bondage smi…
When Winter hoar no longer holds The young year in his gripe, And bleating voices fill the folds… And blackbirds pair and pipe; Then coax the maiden where the sap
Beyond the pasture’s withered bent… Upstanding hop, recumbent fleece, And sheaves of wheat, like weather… A twilight bivouac of peace.
