Poets •
Biographies •
Poems by Themes •
Random Poem •
The Rating of Poets • The Rating of Poems |
||
|
Poem by Dylan Thomas In Country Sleep I Never and never, my girl riding far and near In the land of the hearthstone tales, and spelled asleep, Fear or believe that the wolf in a sheepwhite hood Loping and bleating roughly and blithely shall leap, My dear, my dear, Out of a lair in the flocked leaves in the dew dipped year To eat your heart in the house in the rosy wood. Sleep, good, for ever, slow and deep, spelled rare and wise, My girl ranging the night in the rose and shire Of the hobnail tales: no gooseherd or swine will turn Into a homestall king or hamlet of fire And prince of ice To court the honeyed heart from your side before sunrise In a spinney of ringed boys and ganders, spike and burn, Nor the innocent lie in the rooting dingle wooed And staved, and riven among plumes my rider weep. From the broomed witch's spume you are shielded by fern And flower of country sleep and the greenwood keep. Lie fast and soothed, Safe be and smooth from the bellows of the rushy brood. Never, my girl, until tolled to sleep by the stern Bell believe or fear that the rustic shade or spell Shall harrow and snow the blood while you ride wide and near, For who unmanningly haunts the mountain ravened eaves Or skulks in the dell moon but moonshine echoing clear From the starred well? A hill touches an angel. Out of a saint's cell The nightbird lauds through nunneries and domes of leaves Her robin breasted tree, three Marys in the rays. _Sanctum sanctorum_ the animal eye of the wood In the rain telling its beads, and the gravest ghost The owl at its knelling. Fox and holt kneel before blood. Now the tales praise The star rise at pasture and nightlong the fables graze On the lord's-table of the bowing grass. Fear most For ever of all not the wolf in his baaing hood Nor the tusked prince, in the ruttish farm, at the rind And mire of love, but the Thief as meek as the dew. The country is holy: O bide in that country kind, Know the green good, Under the prayer wheeling moon in the rosy wood Be shielded by chant and flower and gay may you Lie in grace. Sleep spelled at rest in the lowly house In the squirrel nimble grove, under linen and thatch And star: held and blessed, though you scour the high four Winds, from the dousing shade and the roarer at the latch, Cool in your vows. Yet out of the beaked, web dark and the pouncing boughs Be you sure the Thief will seek a way sly and sure And sly as snow and meek as dew blown to the thorn, This night and each vast night until the stern bell talks In the tower and tolls to sleep over the stalls Of the hearthstone tales my own, lost love; and the soul walks The waters shorn. This night and each night since the falling star you were born, Ever and ever he finds a way, as the snow falls, As the rain falls, hail on the fleece, as the vale mist rides Through the haygold stalls, as the dew falls on the wind- Milled dust of the apple tree and the pounded islands Of the morning leaves, as the star falls, as the winged Apple seed glides, And falls, and flowers in the yawning wound at our sides, As the world falls, silent as the cyclone of silence. II Night and the reindeer on the clouds above the haycocks And the wings of the great roc ribboned for the fair! The leaping saga of prayer! And high, there, on the hare- Heeled winds the rooks Cawing from their black bethels soaring, the holy books Of birds! Among the cocks like fire the red fox Burning! Night and the vein of birds in the winged, sloe wrist Of the wood! Pastoral beat of blood through the laced leaves! The stream from the priest black wristed spinney and sleeves Of thistling frost Of the nightingale's din and tale! The upgiven ghost Of the dingle torn to singing and the surpliced Hill of cypresses! The din and tale in the skimmed Yard of the buttermilk rain on the pail! The sermon Of blood! The bird loud vein! The saga from mermen To seraphim Leaping! The gospel rooks! All tell, this night, of him Who comes as red as the fox and sly as the heeled wind. Illumination of music! the lulled black-backed Gull, on the wave with sand in its eyes! And the foal moves Through the shaken greensward lake, silent, on moonshod hooves, In the winds' wakes. Music of elements, that a miracle makes! Earth, air, water, fire, singing into the white act, The haygold haired, my love asleep, and the rift blue Eyed, in the haloed house, in her rareness and hilly High riding, held and blessed and true, and so stilly Lying the sky Might cross its planets, the bell weep, night gather her eyes, The Thief fall on the dead like the willy nilly dew, Only for the turning of the earth in her holy Heart! Slyly, slowly, hearing the wound in her side go Round the sun, he comes to my love like the designed snow, And truly he Flows to the strand of flowers like the dew's ruly sea, And surely he sails like the ship shape clouds. Oh he Comes designed to my love to steal not her tide raking Wound, nor her riding high, nor her eyes, nor kindled hair, But her faith that each vast night and the saga of prayer He comes to take Her faith that this last night for his unsacred sake He comes to leave her in the lawless sun awaking Naked and forsaken to grieve he will not come. Ever and ever by all your vows believe and fear My dear this night he comes and night without end my dear Since you were born: And you shall wake, from country sleep, this dawn and each first dawn, Your faith as deathless as the outcry of the ruled sun. Dylan Thomas Dylan Thomas's other poems:
1231 Views |
|
English Poetry. E-mail eng-poetry.ru@yandex.ru |