« ՆախորդըՇարունակել »
The air is damp, and hush'd, and close,
An hour before death ;
And the breath
Of the fading edges of box beneath, And the year's last rose.
Heavily hangs the broad sunflower
Over its grave i' the earth so chilly ;
Ode to Autumn
SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun ; Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run ;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store ?
find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers : And sometime like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook ;
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies ;
Hedge-crickets sing ; and now with treble soft
Hymn to Diana
Now the sun is laid to sleep,
Hesperus entreats thy light,
Goddess excellently bright.
Dare itself to interpose;
Bless us then with wished sight,
Lay thy bow of pearl apart,
And thy crystal-shining quiver ;
Thou that mak'st a day of night-
The Waning Moon
.. How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank ! Here will we sit and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears : soft stillness and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony. Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold : There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st But in his motion like an angel sings, Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins; Such harmony is in immortal souls ; But whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.
patines] paten (pronounced patten), the Eucharistic dish, hence any small flat circular plate of gold.
Earth has not anything to show more fair :
Never did sun more beautifully steep
As through the wild green hills of Wyre
many an honest fellow's fist
have held true fellows' hands.
Be clean then ; rot before
work in town and farm
'll help me, hands that gave
A. E. Housman.
Song in Absence
GREEN fields of England! wheresoe'er
eyes in England, I must flee
loved smile I cease to see,