« ΠροηγούμενηΣυνέχεια »
Lie still, I said, for the wind's wing closes,
And mild leaves muffle the keen sun's dart; Lie still, for the wind on the warm seas dozes,
And the wind is unquieter yet than thou art.
Does a thought in thee still as a thorn's wound smart? Does the fang still fret thee of hope deferred?
What bids the lips of thy sleep dispart? Only the song of a secret bird.
The green land's name that a charm encloses,
It never was writ in the traveller's chart, And sweet on its trees as the fruit that grows is,
It never was sold in the merchant's mart.
The swallows of dreams through its dim fields dart, And sleep's are the tunes in its tree-tops heard;
No hound's note wakens the wildwood hart, Only the song of a secret bird.
In the world of dreams I have chosen my part,
To sleep for a season and hear no word Of true love's truth or of light love's art, Only the song of a secret bird.
Algernon Charles Swinburne (1839-1909)
The rising moon has hid the stars;
Lie on the landscape green,
And silver white the river gleams,
Had dropped her silver bow
On such a tranquil night as this,
When, sleeping in the grove,
Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought,
Nor voice, nor sound betrays
It comes,—the beautiful, the free,
In silence and alone
It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep
And kisses the closed eyes
O weary hearts! O slumbering eyes!
Are fraught with fear and pain,
No one is so accursed by fate,
But some heart, though unknown,
Responds, -as if with unseen wings,
And whispers, in its song,
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882]
Two shall be born, the whole wide world apart,
And two shall walk some narrow way of life
Susan Marr Spalding (18 - ?]
“GIVE ALL TO LOVE”
Give all to love;
'Tis a brave master;
“Give All To Love"
It dives into noon,
It was never for the mean;
Leave all for love;
Cling with life to the maid;
Though thou loved her as thyself,
Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882]
“O, LOVE IS NOT A SUMMER MOOD”
O, LOVE is not a summer mood,
Nor flying phantom of the brain,
Nor dream, nor fate, nor circumstance.
Love is the flower of maidenhood;
Love is the fruit of mortal pain;
True love is steadfast as the skies,
Richard Watson Gilder (1844-1909)
WHEN WILL LOVE COME?
SOME find Love late, some find him soon,
Some with the rose in May,
And some when skies are gray;
And comes with tears to some;
For some Love's lips are dumb.
How will you come to me, fair Love?
Will you come late or soon? With sad or smiling skies above,
By light of sun or moon?