Читать книгу The Cup of Comus: Fact and Fancy - Cawein Madison Julius - Страница 5

The wind makes moan, the water runneth chill;

I hear the nymphs go crying through the brake;

And roaming mournfully from hill to hill

The maenads all are silent for his sake!

He loved thy pipe, O wreathed and piping Pan!

So play'st thou sadly, lone within thine hollow;

He was thy blood, if ever mortal man,

Therefore thou weepest – even thou, Apollo!

But O, the grieving of the Little Things,

Above the pipe and lyre, throughout the woods!

The beating of a thousand airy wings,

The cry of all the fragile multitudes!

The moth flits desolate, the tree-toad calls,

Telling the sorrow of the elf and fay;

The cricket, little harper of the walls,

Puts up his harp – hath quite forgot to play!

And risen on these winter paths anew,

The wilding blossoms make a tender sound;

The purple weed, the morning-glory blue,

And all the timid darlings of the ground!

Here, here the pain is sharpest! For he walked

As one of these – and they knew naught of fear,

But told him daily happenings and talked

Their lovely secrets in his list'ning ear!

Yet we do bid them grieve, and tell their grief;

Else were they thankless, else were all untrue;

O wind and stream, O bee and bird and leaf,

Mourn for your poet, with a long adieu!