Читать книгу Poems. Volume 1 - George Meredith - Страница 22

   Know you the low pervading breeze

               That softly sings

   In the trembling leaves of twilight trees,

As if the wind were dreaming on its wings?

   And have you marked their still degrees

   Of ebbing melody, like the strings

Of a silver harp swept by a spirit’s hand

      In some strange glimmering land,

               ’Mid gushing springs,

               And glistenings

Of waters and of planets, wild and grand!

   And have you marked in that still time

   The chariots of those shining cars

   Brighten upon the hushing dark,

               And bent to hark

That Voice, amid the poplar and the lime,

   Pause in the dilating lustre

               Of the spheral cluster;

   Pause but to renew its sweetness, deep

As dreams of heaven to souls that sleep!

   And felt, despite earth’s jarring wars,

               When day is done

               And dead the sun,

   Still a voice divine can sing,

   Still is there sympathy can bring

               A whisper from the stars!

Ah, with this sentience quickly will you know

How like a tree I tremble to the tones

               Of your sweet voice!

               How keenly I rejoice

   When in me with sweet motions slow

The spiritual music ebbs and moans—

Lives in the lustre of those heavenly eyes,

Dies in the light of its own paradise,—

Dies, and relives eternal from its death,

Immortal melodies in each deep breath;

Sweeps thro’ my being, bearing up to thee

Myself, the weight of its eternity;

Till, nerved to life from its ordeal fire,

It marries music with the human lyre,

Blending divine delight with loveliest desire.