GIOVANNI MARRADI-Morning has broken
Michael & inessa Garmash Art
The Meadows In Spring
'Tis a dull sight
When such a time cometh,
I never look out
Then with an old friend
Then go we to smoking,
And ere to bed
Then the clouds part,
Edward Fitzgerald
To see the year dying,
When winter winds
Set the yellow wood sighing:
Sighing, oh! sighing.
I do retire
Into an old room
Beside a bright fire:
Oh, pile a bright fire!
And there I sit
Reading old things,
Of knights and lorn damsels,
While the wind sings-
Oh, drearily sings!
Nor attend to the blast;
For all to be seen
Is the leaves falling fast:
Falling, falling!
But close at the hearth,
Like a cricket, sit I,
Reading of summer
And chivalry-
Gallant chivalry!
I talk of our youth!
How 'twas gladsome, but often
Foolish, forsooth:
But gladsome, gladsome!
Or to get merry
We sing some old rhyme,
That made the wood ring again
In summertime-
Sweet summertime!
Silent and snug:
Nought passes between us,
Save a brown jug-
Sometimes!
And sometimes a tear
Will rise in each eye,
Seeing the two old friends
So merrily-
So merrily!
Go we, go we,
Down on the ashes
We kneel on the knee,
Praying together!
Thus, then, live I,
Till, 'mid all the gloom,
By heaven! the bold sun
Is with me in the room
Shining, shining!
Swallow soaring between;
The spring is alive,
And the meadows are green!
I jump up, like mad,
Break the old pipe in twain,
And away to the meadows,
The meadows again!
Prayer in Spring
Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day;
Robert Frost
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.
Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,
Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;
And make us happy in the happy bees,
The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.
And make us happy in the darting bird
That suddenly above the bees is heard,
The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,
And off a blossom in mid air stands still.
For this is love and nothing else is love,
The which it is reserved for God above
To sanctify to what far ends He will,
But which it only needs that we fulfill.
My April Lady
When down the stair at morning
Henry Van Dyke
The sunbeams round her float,
Sweet rivulets of laughter
Are bubbling in her throat;
The gladness of her greeting
Is gold without alloy;
And in the morning sunlight
I think her name is Joy.
When in the evening twilight
The quiet book-room lies,
We read the sad old ballads,
While from her hidden eyes
The tears are falling, falling,
That give her heart relief;
And in the evening twilight,
I think her name is Grief.
My little April lady,
Of sunshine and of showers,
She weaves the old spring magic,
And breaks my heart in flowers!
But when her moods are ended,
She nestles like a dove;
Then, by the pain and rapture,
I know her name is Love.
Lines Written in Early Spring
I heard a thousand blended notes,
To her fair works did Nature link
Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The birds around me hopped and played,
The budding twigs spread out their fan,
If this belief from heaven be sent,
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And ’tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.
Their thoughts I cannot measure:—
But the least motion which they made
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.
If such be Nature’s holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?
No comments:
Post a Comment