Imagini ale paginilor

Approach strong deliveress,
When it is so, when thou hast taken them I joyously sing

the dead,
Lost in the loving floating ocean of thee,
Laved in the flood of thy bliss O death.

From me to thee glad serenades,
Dances for thee I propose saluting thee, adornments and

feastings for thee, And the sights of the open landscape and the high-spread sky

are fitting, And life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night

The night in silence under many a star,
The ocean shore and the husky whispering wave whose voice

I know,
And the soul turning to thee O vast and well-veiled death,
And the body gratefully nestling close to thee.

Over the tree-tops I float thee a song,
Over the rising and sinking waves, over the myriad fields and

the prairies wide, Over the dense-packed cities all and the teeming wharte

and ways,

I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee O death.

Walt Whitman



"HERE'S not a nook within this solemn Pass, . But were an apt confessional for One Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone, That Life is but a tale of morning grass

Withered at eve.

From scenes of art which chase
That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes
Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities,
Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass
Untouched, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy quest,
If from a golden perch of aspen spray
(October's workmanship to rival May)
The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast
That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay,
Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest!

William Wordsworth





RAISED be the Art whose subtle power could stay

Yon cloud, and fix it in that glorious shape;
Nor would permit the thin smoke to escape,
Nor those bright sunbeams to forsake the day;
Which stopped that band of travelers on their way,
Ere they were lost within the shady wood;
And showed the Bark upon the glassy flood
For ever anchored in her sheltering bay.
Soul-soothing Art! whom Morning, Noontide, Even,
Do serve with all their changeful pageantry;
Thou, with ambition modest yet sublime,
Here, for the sight of mortal man, hast given
To one brief moment caught from fleeting time
The appropriate calm of blest eternity.

William Wordsworth



HOU still unravished bride of quietness,

Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express

A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,

In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loath?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?

What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard

Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared,

Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;

Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,

For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed

Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy mclodist, unwearièd,

For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoyed,

For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed,

A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?

To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,

And all her silken flanks with garlands dressed?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,

Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell

Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede

Of marble men and maidens over wrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;

Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,

Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,

“Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.”

[blocks in formation]

1 The translation is by George Santayana, and is reprinted with the permission of Charles Scribner's Sons.

Fie on a facile measure,
A shoe where every lout

At pleasure
Slips his foot in and out!

Sculptor, lay by the clay
On which thy nerveless finger

May linger,
Thy thoughts flown far away.

Keep to Carrara rare,
Struggle with Paros cold,

That hold
The subtle line and fair.

Lest haply nature lose
That proud, that perfect line,

Make thine
The bronze of Syracuse.

And with a tender dread
Upon an agate's face

Apollo's golden head.

Despise a watery hue
And tints that soon expire.

With fire
Burn thine enamel true.

Twine, twine in artful wise
The blue-green mermaid's arms,

Mid charms
Of thousand heraldries.

« ÎnapoiContinuă »