Puslapio vaizdai
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Wait I prithee, till I come

Within ear shot of thy hum,

All without is martyrdom.

When the south wind, in May days,

With a net of shining haze,

Silvers the horizon wall,

And, with softness touching all,

Tints the human countenance

With a colour of romance,

And, infusing subtle heats,

Turns the sod to violets,

Thou in sunny solitudes,

Rover of the underwoods,
The green silence dost displace,
With thy mellow breezy bass.

Hot midsummer's petted crone,
Sweet to me thy drowsy tune,
Telling of countless sunny hours,
Long days, and solid banks of flowers,

Of gulfs of sweetness without bound

In Indian wildernesses found,

Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure,

Firmest cheer and bird-like pleasure.

Aught unsavoury or unclean,

Hath my insect never seen,

But violets and bilberry bells,

Maple sap and daffodels,

Grass with green flag half-mast high,

Succory to match the sky,

Columbine with horn of honey,
Scented fern, and agrimony,
Clover, catchfly, adders-tongue,
And briar-roses dwelt among;
All beside was unknown waste,
All was picture as he passed.

Wiser far than human seer,
Yellow-breeched philosopher!
Seeing only what is fair,
Sipping only what is sweet,

Thou dost mock at fate and care,

Leave the chaff and take the wheat.
When the fierce north-western blast

Cools sea and land so far and fast,
Thou already slumberest deep,-
Wo and want thou canst out-sleep,—

Want and wo which torture us,

Thy sleep makes ridiculous.

BERRYING.

'MAY be true what I had heard,

Earth's a howling wilderness

Truculent with fraud and force,'

Said I, strolling through the pastures,

And along the river-side.

Caught among the blackberry vines,

Feeding on the Ethiops sweet,

Pleasant fancies overtook me :

I said, What influence me preferred

Elect to dreams thus beautiful?'

The vines replied, 'And didst thou deem

No wisdom to our berries went ?'

THE SNOW STORM.

ANNOUNCED by all the trumpets of the sky
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river and the heaven,
And veils the farm-house at the garden's end.
The steed and traveller stopped, the courier's feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fire-place, enclosed

In a tumultuous privacy of storm.

Come, see the north wind's masonry.

Out of an unseen quarry evermore

Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer

Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work

So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly

On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;

D

A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn;

Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer's sighs, and at the gate
A tapering turret overtops the work.

And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone
Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.

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Born out of time;

All his accomplishment

From nature's utmost treasure spent

Booteth not him.

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