Eeee
Eeee
Eeee
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!
The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea, Bird thou never wert,
The plowman homeward plods his weary way, That from Heaven, or near it,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Higher still and higher
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, From the earth thou springest
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds; Like a cloud of fire;
The blue deep thou wingest,
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r, In the golden lightning
Molest her ancient solitary reign. Of the sunken sun,
O'er which clouds are bright'ning,
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Thou dost float and run;
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The pale purple even
Melts around thy flight;
The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, Like a star of Heaven,
The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, In the broad day-light
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
Keen as are the arrows
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Of that silver sphere,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care: Whose intense lamp narrows
No children run to lisp their sire's return, In the white dawn clear
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, All the earth and air
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; With thy voice is loud,
How jocund did they drive their team afield! As, when night is bare,
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! From one lonely cloud
The moon rains out her beams, and Heaven is overflow'd.
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; What thou art we know not;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile What is most like thee?
The short and simple annals of the poor. From rainbow clouds there flow not
Drops so bright to see
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Awaits alike th' inevitable hour. Like a Poet hidden
The paths of glory lead but to the grave. In the light of thought,
Singing hymns unbidden,
Till the world is wrought
Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:
If Mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where thro' the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault Like a high-born maiden
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. In a palace-tower,
Soothing her love-laden
Can storied urn or animated bust Soul in secret hour
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:
Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death? Like a glow-worm golden
In a dell of dew,
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Scattering unbeholden
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Its aëreal hue
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:
Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre.
Like a rose embower'd
But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page In its own green leaves,
Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll; By warm winds deflower'd,
Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage, Till the scent it gives
And froze the genial current of the soul. Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy-winged thieves:
Your two great eyes will slay me suddenly; Go, lovely rose!
Their beauty shakes me who was once serene; Tell her that wastes her time and me,
Straight through my heart the wound is quick and keen. That now she knows,
When I resemble her to thee,
Only your word will heal the injury How sweet and fair she seems to be.
To my hurt heart, while yet the wound is clean -
Your two great eyes will slay me suddenly; Tell her that’s young,
Their beauty shakes me who was once serene. And shuns to have her graces spied,
That hadst thou sprung
Upon my word, I tell you faithfully In deserts, where no men abide,
Through life and after death you are my queen; Thou must have uncommended died.
For with my death the whole truth shall be seen.
Your two great eyes will slay me suddenly; Small is the worth
Their beauty shakes me who was once serene; Of beauty from the light retired;
Straight through my heart the wound is quick and keen. Bid her come forth,
Suffer herself to be desired,
And not blush so to be admired.
I want to sleep
by Masaoka Shiki
I want to sleep
Swat the flies
Softly please