Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Генри Уодсворт Лонгфелло)

Eliot's Oak

Thou ancient oak! whose myriad leaves are loud
  With sounds of unintelligible speech,
  Sounds as of surges on a shingly beach,
  Or multitudinous murmurs of a crowd;
With some mysterious gift of tongues endowed,
  Thou speakest a different dialect to each;
  To me a language that no man can teach,
  Of a lost race, long vanished like a cloud.
For underneath thy shade, in days remote,
  Seated like Abraham at eventide
  Beneath the oaks of Mamre, the unknown
Apostle of the Indians, Eliot, wrote
  His Bible in a language that hath died
  And is forgotten, save by thee alone.

1. Maidenhood
2. The Fire of Drift-Wood
3. Hymn of the Moravian Nuns of Bethlehem
4. Tegnér’s Drapa
5. The Skeleton in Armor

Распечатать (To print)

Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1880

Последние стихотворения

To English version