The Letters and Poems of John Keats, Том 3 |
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Сторінка 1
May I sing to thee As thou wast hymned on the shores of Baiæ ? Or may I woo thee In earlier Sicilian ? or thy smiles Seek as they once were sought , in Grecian isles , By bards who died content on pleasant sward , Leaving great verse ...
May I sing to thee As thou wast hymned on the shores of Baiæ ? Or may I woo thee In earlier Sicilian ? or thy smiles Seek as they once were sought , in Grecian isles , By bards who died content on pleasant sward , Leaving great verse ...
Сторінка 3
At tender eye - dawn of aurorean love : The winged boy I knew ; But who wast thou , O happy , happy dove ? His Psyche true ! O latest - born and loveliest vision far Of all Olympus ' faded hierarchy ! Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire ...
At tender eye - dawn of aurorean love : The winged boy I knew ; But who wast thou , O happy , happy dove ? His Psyche true ! O latest - born and loveliest vision far Of all Olympus ' faded hierarchy ! Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire ...
Сторінка 5
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 ...
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 ...
Сторінка 8
... through envy of thy happy lot , But being too happy in thy happiness - That thou , light - winged Dryad of the trees , In some melodious plot Of beechen green , and shadows numberless , Singest of summer in full - throated ease .
... through envy of thy happy lot , But being too happy in thy happiness - That thou , light - winged Dryad of the trees , In some melodious plot Of beechen green , and shadows numberless , Singest of summer in full - throated ease .
Сторінка 10
Still wouldst thou sing , and I have ears in vainTo thy high requiem become a sod . Thou wast not born for death , immortal Bird ! No hungry generations tread thee down ; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by ...
Still wouldst thou sing , and I have ears in vainTo thy high requiem become a sod . Thou wast not born for death , immortal Bird ! No hungry generations tread thee down ; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by ...
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