How with pale speechless lips and wan didst pace Crushing beneath thy days that deadly feud ; How to the bitter wall didst turn thy face, Glad from the glances of the multitude.
Ah! here or there; the same sad song of woe, More desolate than world-despair or death, The cry of souls the cruel sun severeth,
The moan of love to madness smitten low. Ah, here or there; the same sad end of things, The same fond fruitless ineffectual life,
High-feathered hope and passionate pulse of wings, Chill sorrow, failure, and despairing strife.
Behold! beyond the mountains of the West, Where sparkle white domes of the purple hills, The light of evening Earth's broad bosom fills And like a golden dove broods o'er her breast, And fades, afar—for you and me, afar,— Shared token of our common deep desire, Which fadeth not, but like a beacon-star Devours the darkness of our hearts with fire.
TO-MORROW, when the sun is sunken, And the seawave ebbs afar,
If thy heart be cold and shrunken And thy hope too like a star
That glitters faintly, glitters coldly, In the farthest fields of space, While the night airs, blowing boldly, Bring their cloudy train apace;
If the seeming sad insistance Of the years oppress thy soul, As from distance unto distance, Past and future, still they roll;
And thy forward glances eager
Aid not, nor the backward cast, Seeing all is mute and meagre— And the future as the past;
If in all this fate betide thee
That no voice hath called thee ‘friend,'
Nature bitterly belied thee
From the wretched end to end;
Even so grieve not, for only
So shalt thou divine the deep
And the height; find for the lonely
Love, and tears for them that weep.
CHILD, the hours that breathe around thee Know thee most divinely fair;
In its love the last enwound thee, And the next shall take thy hair
Backward from thy forehead's whiteness While upon thy lips it fold
Kisses, love-endued with lightness
Lest thou guess what none have told.
Though thou seest not nor knowest, Love about thee, day by day, Dwells and, whereso'er thou goest,
Walks beside thee all the way;
Tenderly his glances greet thee,
And his words about thee weave; Even the winds and waters meet thee Always, only, by love's leave.
Yea, though none can shape or show it, Though no mortal logic prove,
Love himself doth surely know it:
Thou shalt, when thou knowest Love.
« НазадПродовжити » |