第 5 节
作者:
散发弄舟 更新:2024-01-16 22:40 字数:9322
stage in hushed expectancy。
What sound is that which echoes through the wood? Is it the reedy
note of an oaten pipe? Perchance a minute more will see the brood Of
the shaggy forest god; and on his lip Will rest the rushes he is wont to play。
His train in woven baskets bear ripe fruit And weave a dance with ropes
of gray acorns; So light their touch the grasses scarcely sway As they the
measure tread to the lilting flute。 Alas! 't is only Fancy thus adorns。
A cloud drifts idly over the shining sun。 How damp it seems; how
silent; still; and strange! Surely 't was here some tragedy was done; And
here the chorus sang each coming change? Sure this is deep in some sweet;
southern wood; These are not pines; but cypress tall and dark; That is
no thrush which sings so rapturously; But the nightingale in his most
passionate mood Bursting his little heart with anguish。 Hark! The
tread of sandalled feet comes noiselessly。
The silence almost is a sound; and dreams Take on the semblances of
finite things; So potent is the spell that what but seems Elsewhere; is
lifted here on Fancy's wings。 The little woodland theatre seems to wait;
All tremulous with hope and wistful joy; For something that is sure to
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come at last; Some deep emotion; satisfying; great。 It grows a living
presence; bold and shy; Cradling the future in a glorious past。
The Road to Avignon
A Minstrel stands on a marble stair; Blown by the bright wind;
debonair; Below lies the sea; a sapphire floor; Above on the terrace a turret
door Frames a lady; listless and wan; But fair for the eye to rest upon。 The
minstrel plucks at his silver strings; And looking up to the lady; sings:
Down the road to Avignon; The long; long road to Avignon;
Across the bridge to Avignon; One morning in the spring。
The octagon tower casts a shade Cool and gray like a cutlass blade; In
sun…baked vines the cicalas spin; The little green lizards run out and in。 A
sail dips over the ocean's rim; And bubbles rise to the fountain's brim。 The
minstrel touches his silver strings; And gazing up to the lady; sings:
Down the road to Avignon; The long; long road to Avignon;
Across the bridge to Avignon; One morning in the spring。
Slowly she walks to the balustrade; Idly notes how the blossoms fade
In the sun's caress; then crosses where The shadow shelters a carven chair。
Within its curve; supine she lies; And wearily closes her tired eyes。 The
minstrel beseeches his silver strings; And holding the lady spellbound;
sings: Down the road to Avignon; The long; long road to
Avignon; Across the bridge to Avignon; One morning in the
spring。
Clouds sail over the distant trees; Petals are shaken down by the breeze;
They fall on the terrace tiles like snow; The sighing of waves sounds; far
below。 A humming…bird kisses the lips of a rose Then laden with honey
and love he goes。 The minstrel woos with his silver strings; And climbing
up to the lady; sings: Down the road to Avignon; The long; long
road to Avignon; Across the bridge to Avignon; One morning in
the spring。
Step by step; and he comes to her; Fearful lest she suddenly stir。
Sunshine and silence; and each to each; The lute and his singing their only
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A Dome of Many…Coloured Glass
speech; He leans above her; her eyes unclose; The humming…bird enters
another rose。 The minstrel hushes his silver strings。 Hark! The beating of
humming…birds' wings! Down the road to Avignon; The long;
long road to Avignon; Across the bridge to Avignon; One morning
in the spring。
New York at Night
A near horizon whose sharp jags Cut brutally into a sky Of leaden
heaviness; and crags Of houses lift their masonry Ugly and foul; and
chimneys lie And snort; outlined against the gray Of lowhung cloud。 I
hear the sigh The goaded city gives; not day Nor night can ease her heart;
her anguished labours stay。
Below; straight streets; monotonous; From north and south; from east
and west; Stretch glittering; and luminous Above; one tower tops the rest
And holds aloft man's constant quest: Time! Joyless emblem of the
greed Of millions; robber of the best Which earth can give; the vulgar
creed Has seared upon the night its flaming ruthless screed。
O Night! Whose soothing presence brings The quiet shining of the
stars。 O Night! Whose cloak of darkness clings So intimately close that
scars Are hid from our own eyes。 Beggars By day; our wealth is having
night To burn our souls before altars Dim and tree…shadowed; where the
light Is shed from a young moon; mysteriously bright。
Where art thou hiding; where thy peace? This is the hour; but thou
art not。 Will waking tumult never cease? Hast thou thy votary forgot?
Nature forsakes this man…begot And festering wilderness; and now The
long still hours are here; no jot Of dear communing do I know; Instead the
glaring; man…filled city groans below!
A Fairy Tale
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On winter nights beside the nursery fire We read the fairy tale; while
glowing coals Builded its pictures。 There before our eyes We saw the
vaulted hall of traceried stone Uprear itself; the distant ceiling hung With
pendent stalactites like frozen vines; And all along the walls at intervals;
Curled upwards into pillars; roses climbed; And ramped and were confined;
and clustered leaves Divided where there peered a laughing face。 The
foliage seemed to rustle in the wind; A silent murmur; carved in still; gray
stone。 High pointed windows pierced the southern wall Whence proud
escutcheons flung prismatic fires To stain the tessellated marble floor With
pools of red; and quivering green; and blue; And in the shade beyond the
further door; Its sober squares of black and white were hid Beneath a
restless; shuffling; wide…eyed mob Of lackeys and retainers come to view
The Christening。 A sudden blare of trumpets; and the throng About the
entrance parted as the guests Filed singly in with rare and precious gifts。
Our eager fancies noted all they brought; The glorious; unattainable
delights! But always there was one unbidden guest Who cursed the child
and left it bitterness。
The fire falls asunder; all is changed; I am no more a child; and what I
see Is not a fairy tale; but life; my life。 The gifts are there; the many
pleasant things: Health; wealth; long…settled friendships; with a name
Which honors all who bear it; and the power Of making words obedient。
This is much; But overshadowing all is still the curse; That never shall I be
fulfilled by love! Along the parching highroad of the world No other soul
shall bear mine company。 Always shall I be teased with semblances; With
cruel impostures; which I trust awhile Then dash to pieces; as a careless
boy Flings a kaleidoscope; which shattering Strews all the ground about
with coloured sherds。 So I behold my visions on the ground No longer
radiant; an ignoble heap Of broken; dusty glass。 And so; unlit; Even by
hope or faith; my dragging steps Force me forever through the passing
days。
Crowned
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You came to me bearing bright roses; Red like the wine of your heart;
You twi