Aubrey Thomas De Vere (Обри Томас Де Вер)

To a Flower on the Skirts of Mont Blanc

WITH heart not yet half rested from Mont Blanc,
O’er thee, small flower, my wearied eyes I bent,
And rested on that humbler vision long.
Is there less beauty in thy purple tent
Outspread, perchance a boundless firmament
O’er viewless myriads which beneath thee throng,
Than in that mount whose sides, with ruin hung,
Frown o’er black glens and gorges thunder-rent?
Is there less mystery? Wisely if we ponder,
Thine is the mightier marvel. Life in thee
Is strong as in cherubic wings that wander,
Seeking the limits of Infinity;—
Life, life to be transmitted, not to expire
Till yonder snowy vault shall melt in the last fire!

1. Kinsale
2. Composed at Rydal, September, 1860
3. The Dirge of Athunree
4. Early Friendship
5. At the Tomb of King Arthur

Распечатать (Print)

Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1230

Последние стихотворения

To English version