Читать книгу Poems. Volume 1 - George Meredith - Страница 25

Never, O never,

   Since dewy sweet Flora

Was ravished by Zephyr,

   Was such a thing heard

            In the valleys so hollow!

   Till rosy Aurora,

Uprising as ever,

   Bright Phosphor to follow,

Pale Phoebe to sever,

   Was caught like a bird

            To the breast of Apollo!

Wildly she flutters,

   And flushes all over

With passionate mutters

   Of shame to the hush

            Of his amorous whispers:

   But O such a lover

Must win when he utters,

   Thro’ rosy red lispers,

The pains that discover

   The wishes that gush

            From the torches of Hesperus.

One finger just touching

   The Orient chamber,

Unflooded the gushing

   Of light that illumed

            All her lustrous unveiling.

   On clouds of glow amber,

Her limbs richly blushing,

   She lay sweetly wailing,

In odours that gloomed

   On the God as he bloomed

            O’er her loveliness paling.

Great Pan in his covert

   Beheld the rare glistening,

The cry of the love-hurt,

   The sigh and the kiss

            Of the latest close mingling;

   But love, thought he, listening,

Will not do a dove hurt,

   I know,—and a tingling,

Latent with bliss,

   Prickt thro’ him, I wis,

            For the Nymph he was singling.