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Edward Dowden (Эдвард Дауден (Доуден)) In the Garden I. THE GARDEN Past the town’s clamour is a garden full Of loneness and old greenery; at noon When birds are hushed, save one dim cushat’s croon, A ripen’d silence hangs beneath the cool Great branches; basking roses dream and drop A petal, and dream still; and summer’s boon Of mellow grasses, to be levelled soon By a dew-drenchèd scythe, will hardly stop At the uprunning mounds of chestnut trees. Still let me muse in this rich haunt by day, And know all night in dusky placidness It lies beneath the summer, while great ease Broods in the leaves, and every light wind’s stress Lifts a faint odour down the verdurous way. II. VISIONS Here I am slave of visions. When noon heat Strikes the red walls, and their environ’d air Lies steep’d in sun; when not a creature dare Affront the fervour, from my dim retreat Where woof of leaves embowers a beechen seat, With chin on palm, and wide-set eyes I stare, Beyond the liquid quiver and the glare, Upon fair shapes that move on silent feet. Those Three strait-robed, and speechless as they pass, Come often, touch the lute, nor heed me more Than birds or shadows heed; that naked child Is dove-like Psyche slumbering in deep grass; Sleep, sleep,--he heeds thee not, you Sylvan wild Munching the russet apple to its core. III. AN INTERIOR The grass around my limbs is deep and sweet; Yonder the house has lost its shadow wholly, The blinds are dropped, and softly now and slowly The day flows in and floats; a calm retreat Of tempered light where fair things fair things meet; White busts and marble Dian make it holy, Within a niche hangs Dürer’s Melancholy Brooding; and, should you enter, there will greet Your sense with vague allurement effluence faint Of one magnolia bloom; fair fingers draw From the piano Chopin’s heart-complaint; Alone, white-robed she sits; a fierce macaw On the verandah, proud of plume and paint, Screams, insolent despot, showing beak and claw. IV. THE SINGER “That was the thrush’s last good-night,” I thought, And heard the soft descent of summer rain In the drooped garden leaves; but hush! again The perfect iterance,--freer than unsought Odours of violets dim in woodland ways, Deeper than coilèd waters laid a-dream Below mossed ledges of a shadowy stream, And faultless as blown roses in June days. Full-throated singer! art thou thus anew Voiceful to hear how round thyself alone The enrichèd silence drops for thy delight More soft than snow, more sweet than honey-dew? Now cease: the last faint western streak is gone, Stir not the blissful quiet of the night. V. A SUMMER MOON Queen-moon of this enchanted summer night, One virgin slave companioning thee,--I lie Vacant to thy possession as this sky Conquered and calmed by thy rejoicing might; Swim down through my heart’s deep, thou dewy bright Wanderer of heaven, till thought must faint and die, And I am made all thine inseparably, Resolved into the dream of thy delight. Ah no! the place is common for her feet, Not here, not here,--beyond the amber mist, And breadths of dusky pine, and shining lawn, And unstirred lake, and gleaming belts of wheat, She comes upon her Latmos, and has kissed The sidelong face of blind Endymion. VI. A PEACH If any sense in mortal dust remains When mine has been refined from flower to flower, Won from the sun all colours, drunk the shower And delicate winy dews, and gained the gains Which elves who sleep in airy bells, a-swing Through half a summer day, for love bestow, Then in some warm old garden let me grow To such a perfect, lush, ambrosian thing As this. Upon a southward-facing wall I bask, and feel my juices dimly fed And mellowing, while my bloom comes golden grey: Keep the wasps from me! but before I fall Pluck me, white fingers, and o’er two ripe-red Girl lips O let me richly swoon away! VII. EARLY AUTUMN If while I sit flatter’d by this warm sun Death came to me, and kissed my mouth and brow, And eyelids which the warm light hovers through, I should not count it strange. Being half won By hours that with a tender sadness run, Who would not softly lean to lips which woo In the Earth’s grave speech? Nor could it aught undo Of Nature’s calm observances begun Still to be here the idle autumn day. Pale leaves would circle down, and lie unstirr’d Where’er they fell; the tired wind hither call Her gentle fellows; shining beetles stray Up their green courts; and only yon shy bird A little bolder grow ere evenfall. VIII. LATER AUTUMN This is the year’s despair: some wind last night Utter’d too soon the irrevocable word, And the leaves heard it, and the low clouds heard; So a wan morning dawned of sterile light; Flowers drooped, or showed a startled face and white; The cattle cowered, and one disconsolate bird Chirped a weak note; last came this mist and blurred The hills, and fed upon the fields like blight. Ah, why so swift despair! There yet will be Warm noons, the honey’d leavings of the year, Hours of rich musing, ripest autumn’s core, And late-heaped fruit, and falling hedge-berry, Blossoms in cottage-crofts, and yet, once more, A song, not less than June’s, fervent and clear. Edward Dowden's other poems: Poems of another poets with the same name (Стихотворения других поэтов с таким же названием): Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1257 |
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Английская поэзия. Адрес для связи eng-poetry.ru@yandex.ru |