Уильям Мазервелл (William Motherwell)

* * *

SWEET Earlsburn, blithe Earlsburn,
  Mine own, my native stream,
My heart grows young again, while thus
  On thy green banks I dream.
Yes, dream! in sooth I can no more,
  For as thy murmurs roll,
They wake the ancient melodies
  That stirred my infant soul.

I ’ve told thee, one by one, the thoughts;
  Strange shapeless forms were they,
That hung around me fearfully
  In childhood’s dreamy day;
And still thy mystic music spake
  Dimly articulate,
Yielding meet answer to the dreams
  That shadowed forth my fate.

I ’ve wept by thee a sorrowing child;
  I ’ve sported, mad with glee,
And still thou wert the only one
  That seemed to care for me;
For in whatever mood I came
  To wander by thy brim,
Thy murmurs were most musical,
  Soul-soothing as a hymn.

I ’ve wandered far in other lands,
  And mixed with stranger men,
But still my heart untravelled sought
  Repose within thy glen.
The pictures of my memory
  Were fresh as they were limned,
Nor change of scene nor lapse of years
  Their lustre ever dimmed.

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