Puslapio vaizdai
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I that saw where ye trod

The dim paths of the night
Set the shadow call'd God

In your skies to give light;

But the morning of manhood is risen, and the shadowless soul is in sight.

The tree many-rooted
That swells to the sky
With frondage red-fruited,
The life-tree am I ;

In the buds of your lives is the sap of my leaves ye shall live and not die.

But the Gods of your fashion
That take and that give,
In their pity and passion

That scourge and forgive,

They are worms that are bred in the bark that falls off: they shall die and not live.

My own blood is what stanches
The wounds in my bark:
Stars caught in my branches

Make day of the dark,

And are worshipp'd as suns till the sunrise shall tread out their fires as a spark.

Where dead ages hide under
The live roots of the tree,
In my darkness the thunder

Makes utterance of me;

In the clash of my boughs with each other ye hear the waves sound of the sea.

That noise is of Time,

As his feathers are spread
And his feet set to climb

Through the boughs overhead,

And my foliage rings round him and rustles, and branches are bent with his tread.

The storm-winds of ages

Blow through me and cease,
The war-wind that rages,

The spring-wind of peace,

Ere the breath of them roughen my tresses, ere one of my blossoms increase.

All sounds of all changes,

All shadows and lights
On the world's mountain-ranges
And stream-riven heights,

Whose tongue is the wind's tongue and language of storm-clouds on earth-shaking nights;

All forms of all faces,

All works of all hands
In unsearchable places

Of time-stricken lands,

All death and all life, and all reigns and all ruins, drop through me as sands.

Though sore be my burden
And more than ye know,

And my growth have no guerdon
But only to grow,

Yet I fail not of growing for lightnings above me or deathworms below.

These too have their part in me,

As I too in these ;

Such fire is at heart in me,

Such sap is this tree's,

Which hath in it all sounds and all secrets of infinite lands and of seas.

In the spring-color'd hours
When my mind was as May's,
There brake forth of me flowers
By centuries of days,

Strong blossoms with perfume of manhood, shot out from my spirit as

rays.

And the sound of them springing

And smell of their shoots

Were as warmth and sweet singing
And strength to my roots;

And the lives of my children made perfect with freedom of soul were my fruits.

I bid you but be;

I have need not of prayer;

I have need of you free

As your mouths of mine air ;

That my heart may be greater within me, beholding the fruits of me fair.

More fair than strange fruit is
Of faith ye espouse;

In me only the root is

That blooms in your boughs;

Behold now your God that ye made you, to feed him with faith of your vows.

In the darkening and whitening
Abysses ador'd,

With dayspring and lightning

For lamp and for sword,

God thunders in heaven, and his angels are red with the wrath of the Lord.

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plain.

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Shall the dead take thought for the dead to love them?

What love was ever as deep as a grave?

The wind that wanders, the weeds wind- They are loveless now as the grass above

shaken,

These remain.

them Or the wave.

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Till terrace and meadow the deep gulfs But this man found his mother dead and drink,

Till the strength of the waves of the high

tides humble

The fields that lessen, the rocks that shrink,

slain,

With fast-seal'd eyes,

And bade the dead rise up and live again, And she did rise:

Here now in his triumph where all things And all the world was bright with her

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through him:

But dark with strife,

Like heaven's own sun that storming clouds

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Oн, what shall be the burden of our rhyme,

And what shall be our ditty when the blossom's on the lime?

Our lips have fed on winter and on weariness too long:

We will hail the royal summer with a golden-footed song!

O lady of my summer and my spring, We shall hear the blackbird whistle and the brown sweet throstle sing, And the low clear noise of waters running softly by our feet,

When the sights and sounds of summer in the green clear fields are sweet.

We shall see the roses blowing in the green,

The pink-lipp'd roses kissing in the golden summer sheen;

We shall see the fields flower thick with stars and bells of summer gold, And the poppies burn out red and sweet across the corn-crown'd wold.

The time shall be for pleasure, not for pain;

There shall come no ghost of grieving for the past betwixt us twain ; But in the time of roses our lives shall grow together,

And our love be as the love of gods in the blue Olympic weather.

SIBYL

THIS is the glamour of the world antique : The thyme-scents of Hymettus fill the air, And in the grass narcissus-cups are fair. The full brook wanders through the ferns to seek

The amber haunts of bees; and on the peak

Of the soft hill, against the gold-marged sky,

She stands, a dream from out the days gone

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