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To the Stream in Worthy Dell, near Porlock I named thee once the silver thread, When in the burning summer day I stept across thy stony bed Upon my homeward way. For down an old rock's mossy steep Thy thin bright stream, as I past by, Into a calm pool clear and deep Slid down most peacefully. But now it is the Autumn eve, Dark clouds are hurrying through the sky; Thy envious waters will not leave One stone to cross thee by. And all about that old steep rock Thy foamy fall doth plash and roar, Troubling with rude incessant shock The pool so still before. Thus happy childhood evermore Beneath unclouded summer suns On to its little lucid store Of joy most calmly runs. But riper age with restless toil Ever for ampler pleasures frets; And oft with infinite turmoil Troubles the peace it gets. Henry Alford's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1221 |
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