Читать книгу: «Chambers's Edinburgh Journal, No. 454», страница 7
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A DIRGE OF LOVE
BY W. E. L
Yes! she is dead: the splendour of her eyes
Sleeps 'neath the lids for ever; on my sight
Never again shall flash their high delight,
Tender and rich with love's sweet ecstasies.
Never again, deep down from vulgar ken,
Shall the pure gushing of her soul rejoice,
And we stand silent, as to hear the voice
Of waters falling to a soundless glen.
And scarce again from other lips shall come
Such beauteous truths, such fresh imaginings,
As, like the warm south-wind, upon their wings
Bear off our fancy to their own bright home.
Yet am I calm: though hard it be to smooth
Waters upshaken from the deepest deep;
Though it be hard to watch, yet never weep,
The darkening cynosure of passionate youth;
Yet am I calm. The heart I had to bring
Was marred with imperfection and decay,
Now the free spirit, riven from the clay,
Drinks at the fountain whence all love must spring.
O passed from earthly to celestial love!
O reft from me and from my clinging grasp,
And circled straightway by the close, warm clasp
Of seraph bosoms in the land above!
I will not weep thee more. But if I long
Too sorrowfully for thy presence here,
Not vainly on thy turf shall fall the tear,
But thy dead name shall blossom into song.
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07 мая 2019Объем:
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