Мария Джейн Джюсбери (Maria Jane Jewsbury)

The Aspen Leaf

I would some instruction draw,
And raise pleasure to the height,
Through the meanest object's sight.
By the murmur of a spring,
Or the least bough's rustelling.
G. Wither.

I WOULD not be
A leaf on yonder aspen tree;
In every fickle breeze to play,
Wildly, weakly, idly gay,
So feebly framed, so lightly hung,
By the wing of an insect stirred and swung;
Thrilling ev'n to a red-breast's note,
Drooping if only a light mist float,
Brightened and dimmed like a varying glass
As shadow or sunbeam chance to pass;

I would not be
A leaf on yonder aspen tree.
It is not because the autumn sere
Would change my merry guise and cheer,
That soon, full soon, nor leaf nor stem,
Sunlight would gladden, or dew-drop gem,
That I, with my fellows, must fall to earth,
Forgotten our beauty and breezy mirth,
Or else on the bough where all had grown,
Must linger on, and linger alone;
Might life be an endless summer's day,
And I be for ever green and gay,
I would not be, I would not be,
A leaf on yonder aspen tree!
Proudly spoken heart of mine,
Yet weakness and change perchance are thine,
More, and darker, and sadder to see,
Than befall the leaves of yonder tree!
What if they flutter their life is a dance;
Or toy with the sunbeam they live in his glance;
To bird, breeze, and insect, rustle and thrill,
Never the same, never mute, never still,
Emblems of all that is fickle and gay,
But leaves in their birth, but leaves in decay
Chide them not heed them not spirit away!
In to thyself; to thine own hidden shrine,
What there dost thou worship? what deeme'st thou divine?
Thy hopes, are they stedfast, and holy, and high?
Are they built on a rock? are they raised to the sky?
Thy deep secret yearnings, oh! whither point they,
To the triumphs of earth, to the toys of a day?
Thy friendships, and feelings, doth impulse prevail,
To make them, and mar them, as wind swells the sail?
Thy life's ruling passion thy being's first aim
What are they? and yield they contentment or shame?
Spirit, proud spirit, ponder thy state,
If thine the leaf's lightness, not thine the leaf's fate,
It may flutter, and glisten, and wither, and die,
And heed not our pity, and ask not our sigh;
But for thee, the immortal, no winter may throw
Eternal repose on thy joy, or thy woe;
THOU must live, and live ever, in glory or gloom,
Beyond the world's precincts, beyond the dark tomb:
Look to thyself then, ere past is Hope's reign,
And looking and longing alike are in vain;
Lest thou deem it a bliss to have been, or to be,
But a fluttering leaf on yon aspen tree!

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