William Wordsworth (Уильям Вордсворт)

To the River Greta, near Keswick

GRETA, what fearful listening! when huge stones
Rumble along thy bed, block after block;
Or, whirling with reiterated shock,
Combat, while darkness aggravates the groans:
But if thou (like Cocytus from the moans
Heard on his rueful margin) thence wert named
The mourner, thy true nature was defamed,
And the habitual murmur that atones
For thy worst rage forgotten. Oft as Spring
Decks, on thy sinuous banks, her thousand thrones,
Seats of glad instinct and love’s carolling,
The concert, for the happy, then may vie
With liveliest peals of birthday harmony;
To a grieved heart the notes are benisons.

1. Hart’s-Horn Tree, near Penrith
2. Monastery of Old Bangor
3. To the Lady Eleanor Butler and the Hon. Miss Ponsonby
4. Inside of King’s College Chapel, Cambridge: Continued
5. Cave of Staffa

Распечатать (Print)

Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1437

Последние стихотворения

To English version