Richard Chenevix Trench (Ричард Ченевикс Тренч)

In the Isle of Mull

THE CLOUDS are gathering in their western dome,
Deep-drenched with sunlight, as a fleece with dew,
While I with baffled effort still pursue
And track these waters toward their mountain-home,
In vain—though cataract, and mimic foam,
And island-spots, round which the streamlet threw
Its sister-arms, which joyed to meet anew,
Have lured me on, and won me still to roam;
Till now, coy nymph, unseen thy waters pass,
Or faintly struggle through the twinkling grass,—
And I, thy founts unvisited, return.
Is it that thou art revelling with thy peers?
Or dost thou feed a solitary urn,
Else unreplenished, with thine own sad tears?

1. To the Same (Look, dearest, what a glory from the sun)
2. To the Same (Songs of deliverance compassed thee about)
3. To the Same (If sorrow came not near us, and the lore)
4. England (We look for, and have promise to behold)
5. The Same

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1803

Последние стихотворения

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