William Wordsworth (Уильям Вордсворт)

* * *

MARK the concentred hazels that enclose
Yon old grey Stone, protected from the ray
Of noontide suns:--and even the beams that play
And glance, while wantonly the rough wind blows,
Are seldom free to touch the moss that grows
Upon that roof, amid embowering gloom,
The very image framing of a Tomb,
In which some ancient Chieftain finds repose
Among the lonely mountains.--Live, ye trees!
And thou, grey Stone, the pensive likeness keep
Of a dark chamber where the Mighty sleep:
For more than Fancy to the influence bends
When solitary Nature condescends
To mimic Time's forlorn humanities. 

1. Сыновьям Бернса после посещения могилы их отца • To the Sons of Burns
2. Monument of Mrs. Howard
3. The Glen of Loch Etive
4. Suggested at Tyndrum in a Storm
5. Roman Antiquities

Распечатать (Print)

Количество обращений к стихотворению: 2340

Последние стихотворения

To English version