The Triumph of Music, and Other Lyrics. Cawein Madison Julius

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      A molten ruby clear as wine

      Along the east the dawning swims;

      The morning-glories swing and shine,

      The night dews bead their satin rims;

      The bees rob sweets from shrub and vine,

      The gold hangs on their limbs.

      Sweet morn, the South,

      A royal lover,

      From his fragrant mouth,

      Sweet morn, the South

      Breathes on and over

      Keen scents of wild honey and rosy clover.

      Beside the wall the roses blow

      Long summer noons the winds forsake;

      Beside the wall the poppies glow

      So full of fire their hearts do ache;

      The dipping butterflies come slow,

      Half dreaming, half awake.

      Sweet noontide, rest,

      A slave-girl weary

      With her babe at her breast;

      Sweet noontide, rest,

      The day grows dreary

      As soft limbs that are tired and eyes that are teary.

      Along lone paths the cricket cries

      Sad summer nights that know the dew;

      One mad star thwart the heavens flies

      Curved glittering on the glassy blue;

      Now grows the big moon on the skies.

      The stars are faint and few.

      Sweet night, breathe thou

      With a passion taken

      From a Romeo's vow;

      Sweet night, breathe thou

      Like a beauty shaken

      Of amorous dreams that have made her waken.

      Here doth white Spring white violets show,

      Broadcast doth white, frail wind-flowers sow

      Through starry mosses amber-fair,

      As delicate as ferns that grow,

      Hart's-tongue and maiden-hair.

      Here fungus life is beautiful,

      White mushroom and the thick toad-stool

      As various colored as wild blooms;

      Existences that love the cool,

      Distinct in rank perfumes.

      Here stray the wandering cows to rest,

      The calling cat-bird builds her nest

      In spice-wood bushes dark and deep;

      Here raps the woodpecker his best,

      And here young rabbits leap.

      Tall butternuts and hickories,

      The pawpaw and persimmon trees,

      The beech, the chestnut, and the oak,

      Wall shadows huge, like ghosts of bees

      Through which gold sun-bits soak.

      Here to pale melancholy moons.

      In haunted nights of dreamy Junes,

      Wails wildly the weird whippoorwill,

      Whose mournful and demonic tunes

      Wild woods with phantoms fill.

      Ah, God! were I away, away,

      By woodland-belted hills!

      There might be more in Thy bright day

      Than my poor spirit thrills.

      The elder coppice, banks of blooms,

      The spice-wood brush, the field

      Of tumbled clover, and perfumes

      Hot, weedy pastures yield.

      The old rail-fence whose angles hold

      Bright briar and sassafras,

      Sweet priceless wild flowers blue and gold

      Starred through the moss and grass.

      The ragged path that winds unto

      Lone cow-behaunted nooks,

      Through brambles to the shade and dew

      Of rocks and woody brooks.

      To see the minnows turn and gleam

      White sparkling bellies, all

      Shoot in gray schools adown the stream

      Let but a dead leaf fall.

      The buoyant pleasure and delight

      Of floating feathered seeds.

      Capricious wanderers soft and white

      Born of silk-bearing weeds.

      Ah, God! were I away, away,

      Among wild woods and birds!

      There were more soul within Thy day

      Than one might bless with words.

      For him God's birds each merry morn

      Make of wild throats melodious flutes

      To trill such love from brush and thorn

      As might brim eyes of brutes:

      Who would believe of such a thing,

      That 'tis her heart which makes them sing?

      For him the faultless skies of noon

      Grow farther in eternal blue,

      As СКАЧАТЬ