Puslapio vaizdai

Sing flutes of harvest

Where men rejoice ; Sing rounds of reapers,—

And my Love's voice.

But when comes Winter

With hail and storm, And red fire roaring

And ingle warm,Sing first sad going

Of friends that part ; Then sing glad meeting,

And my Love's heart.



Le temps s'en va, le temps s'en va, ma dame ! Las! le temps non: mais NOUS nous en allons ! "

TIME goes, you say ? Ah no!

Alas, Time stays, we go ; Or else, were this not so, What need to chain the hours, For Youth were always ours ?

Time goes, you say ?-ah no !

Ours is the eyes' deceit
Of men whose flying feet

Lead through some landscape low ; We

pass, and think we see The earth's fixed surface flee :

Alas, Time stays,-we go!

Once in the days of old,
Your locks were curling gold,

And mine had shamed the crow.
Now, in the self-same stage,
We've reached the silver age ;

Time goes, you say ?-ah no !

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Once, when my voice was strong,
I filled the woods with song

To praise your “rose ” and “ snow "; My bird, that

sang, Where are your roses fled ?

Alas, Time stays, -we go!

is dead ;

See, in what traversed ways,
What backward Fate delays

The hopes we used to know ;
Where are our old desires ?
Ah, where those vanished fires ?

Time goes, you say ?-ah no!

How far, how far, O Sweet,
The pass behind our feet

Lies in the even-glow!
Now, on the forward way,
Let us fold hands, and pray ;

Alas, Time stays, we go!



TITH breath of thyme and bees that hum,

Across the years you seem to come, –
Across the years with nymph-like head,
And wind-blown brows unfilleted;
A girlish shape that slips the bud

In lines of unspoiled symmetry ;
A girlish shape that stirs the blood

With pulse of Spring, Autonoë !

Where'er you pass,—where'er you go,
I hear the pebbly rillet flow;
Where'er you go,—where'er you pass,
There comes a gladness on the grass ;
You bring blithe airs where'er you tread,-

Blithe airs that blow from down and sea ;
You wake in me a Pan not dead, -

Not wholly dead !-Autonoë !

How sweet with you on some green sod
To wreathe the rustic garden-god;
How sweet beneath the chestnut's shade
With you to weave a basket-braid ;


To watch across the stricken chords

Your rosy-twinkling fingers flee ; To woo you in soft woodland words,

With woodland pipe, Autonoë !

In vain,-in vain! The


divide : Where Thamis rolls a murky tide, I sit and fill my painful reams, And see you only in my dreams ;A vision, like Alcestis, brought

From under-lands of Memory, A dream of Form in days of Thought,

A dream,-a dream, Autonoë !

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