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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow “To William E. Channing”

Tania-Soleil Journal Опубликовано автором

To William E. Channing The pages of thy book I read, And as I closed each one, My heart, responding, ever said, «Servant of God! well done!» Well done! Thy words are great and bold; At times they seem to me, Like Luther’s, in the days of old, Half-battles for the free. Go on, until this land revokes The old and chartered Lie, The feudal curse, whose whips and yokes Insult humanity. A voice is ever at thy side Speaking in tones of might, Like the prophetic voice, that cried To John in Patmos, «Write!» Write! and tell out this … Читать далее →

Christina Rossetti «A Prodigal Son»

Tania-Soleil Journal Опубликовано автором

A Prodigal Son DOES that lamp still burn in my Father’s house, Which he kindled the night I went away? I turned once beneath the cedar boughs, And marked it gleam with a golden ray; Did he think to light me home some day? Hungry here with the crunching swine, Hungry harvest have I to reap; In a dream I count my Father’s kine, I hear the tinkling bells of his sheep I watch his lambs that browse and leap. There is plenty of bread at home, His servants have bread enough and to spare; The purple wine-fat froths with … Читать далее →

Edna St. Vincent Millay «If Still Your Orchards Bear»

Tania-Soleil Journal Опубликовано автором

If Still Your Orchards Bear Brother, that breathe the August air Ten thousand years from now, And smell—if still your orchards bear Tart apples on the bough— The early windfall under the tree, And see the red fruit shine, I cannot think your thoughts will be Much different from mine. Should at that moment the full moon Step forth upon the hill, And memories hard to bear at noon, By moonlight harder still, Form in the shadow of the trees, — Things that you could not spare And live, or so you thought, yet these All gone, and you still … Читать далее →

John Greenleaf Whittier «My Playmate»

Tania-Soleil Journal Опубликовано автором

My Playmate THE PINES were dark on Ramoth hill, Their song was soft and low; The blossoms in the sweet May wind Were falling like the snow. The blossoms drifted at our feet, The orchard birds sang clear; The sweetest and the saddest day It seemed of all the year. For, more to me than birds or flowers, My playmate left her home, And took with her the laughing spring, The music and the bloom. She kissed the lips of kith and kin, She laid her hand in mine What more could ask the bashful boy Who fed her father’s … Читать далее →

Christina Rossetti «After Death»

Tania-Soleil Journal Опубликовано автором

After Death The curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept And strewn with rushes, rosemary and may Lay thick upon the bed on which I lay, Where through the lattice ivy-shadows crept. He leaned above me, thinking that I slept And could not hear him; but I heard him say, ‘Poor child, poor child’: and as he turned away Came a deep silence, and I knew he wept. He did not touch the shroud, or raise the fold That hid my face, or take my hand in his, Or ruffle the smooth pillows for my head: He did not … Читать далее →

Hilaire Belloc «The world’s a stage…»

Tania-Soleil Journal Опубликовано автором

* * * The world’s a stage. The trifling entrance fee Is paid (by proxy) to the registrar. The Orchestra is very loud and free But plays no music in particular. They do not print a programme, that I know. The cast is large. There isn’t any plot. The acting of the piece is far below The very worst of modernistic rot. The only part about it I enjoy Is what was called in English the Foyay. There will I stand apart awhile and toy With thought, and set my cigarette alight; And then — without returning to the play … Читать далее →

Robert Bridges „Nightingales“

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Nightingales Beautiful must be the mountains whence ye come, And bright in the fruitful valleys the streams, wherefrom Ye learn your song: Where are those starry woods? O might I wander there, Among the flowers, which in that heavenly air Bloom the year long! Nay, barren are those mountains and spent the streams: Our song is the voice of desire, that haunts our dreams, A throe of the heart, Whose pining visions dim, forbidden hopes profound, No dying cadence nor long sigh can sound, For all our art. Alone, aloud in the raptured ear of men We pour our dark … Читать далее →