Читать книгу The Garden of Dreams - Cawein Madison Julius - Страница 11

There is no joy of earth that thrills

My bosom like the far-off hills!

Th' unchanging hills, that, shadowy,

Beckon our mutability

To follow and to gaze upon

Foundations of the dusk and dawn.

Meseems the very heavens are massed

Upon their shoulders, vague and vast

With all the skyey burden of

The winds and clouds and stars above.

Lo, how they sit before us, seeing

The laws that give all Beauty being!

Behold! to them, when dawn is near,

The nomads of the air appear,

Unfolding crimson camps of day

In brilliant bands; then march away;

And under burning battlements

Of twilight plant their tinted tents.

The faith of olden myths, that brood

By haunted stream and haunted wood,

They see; and feel the happiness

Of old at which we only guess:

The dreams, the ancients loved and knew,

Still as their rocks and trees are true:

Not otherwise than presences

The tempest and the calm to these:

One shouting on them, all the night,

Black-limbed and veined with lambent light:

The other with the ministry

Of all soft things that company

With music – an embodied form,

Giving to solitude the charm

Of leaves and waters and the peace

Of bird-begotten melodies —

And who at night doth still confer

With the mild moon, who telleth her

Pale tale of lonely love, until

Wan images of passion fill

The heights with shapes that glimmer by

Clad on with sleep and memory.