« ՆախորդըՇարունակել »
The air is damp, and hush'd, and close,
An hour before death ;
And the breath
Of the fading edges of box beneath,
Heavily hangs the broad sunflower
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 ?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may 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 ; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft
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,
95 The Waning Moon
And like a dying lady, lean and pale,
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
Be clean then; rot before you
A. E. Housman.
Song in Absence
Sweet eyes in England, I must flee
loved smile I cease to see,