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Henry Kirke White (Генри Керк Уайт) The Dark Woodland As thus oppressed with many a heavy care (Though young yet sorrowful), I turn my feet To the dark woodland, longing much to greet The form of peace, if chance she sojourn there; Deep thought and dismal, verging to despair, Fills my sad breast; and tired with this vain coil I shrink dismayed before life's upland toil, And as amid the leaves the evening air Whispers still melody, —I think, ere long When I no more can hear, these woods will speak; And then a sad smile plays upon my cheek, And mournful fantasies upon me throng, And I do ponder with most strange delight On the calm slumbers of the dead man's night. Henry Kirke White's other poems:
Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1216 |
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