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YE field flowers! the gardens eclipse you, 't is true,
For ye waft me to summers of old,
When the earth teemed around me with fairy delight,
love you for lulling me back into dreams
Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams,
Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune
Where I thought it delightful your beauties to find,
Even now, what affections the violet awakes!
What landscapes I read in the primrose's looks,
Earth's cultureless buds, to my heart ye were dear,
Had scathed my existence's bloom;
Once I welcome you more, in life's passionless stage,
THE Lark has sung his carol in the sky;
A few short years, and then these sounds shall hail
Then the huge ox shall yield the broad sirloin ;
"'T was on these knees he sate so oft, and smiled."
And soon again shall music swell the breeze; Soon issuing forth shall glitter through the trees Vestures of nuptial white; and hymns be sung, And violets scattered round; and old and young, In every cottage-porch with garlands green, Stand still to gaze, and, gazing, bless the scene; While, her dark eyes declining, by his side Moves in her virgin-veil the gentle bride.
And once, alas, nor in a distant hour,
He rests in holy earth with them that went before.
And such is Human Life; so gliding on,
To minstrel-harps at midnight's witching hour!
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-eves run;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
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-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers; And sometime like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook, Or by a cider-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
The Cry of the Children.
“ φεῦ, φεῦ, τι προσδερχεσθε μ' ομμασιν, τεκνα.”.
Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers,
They are leaning their young heads against their mothers,
And that cannot stop their tears.