Читать книгу The Complete Poetical Works of James Russell Lowell - James Russell Lowell - Страница 16

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Thy voice is like a fountain,

Leaping up in clear moonshine;

Silver, silver, ever mounting,

Ever sinking,

Without thinking,

To that brimful heart of thine.

Every sad and happy feeling,

Thou hast had in bygone years,

Through thy lips comes stealing, stealing,

Clear and low; 10

All thy smiles and all thy tears

In thy voice awaken,

And sweetness, wove of joy and woe,

From their teaching it hath taken:

Feeling and music move together,

Like a swan and shadow ever

Floating on a sky-blue river

In a day of cloudless weather.

It hath caught a touch of sadness,

Yet it is not sad; 20

It hath tones of clearest gladness,

Yet it is not glad;

A dim, sweet twilight voice it is

Where to-day's accustomed blue

Is over-grayed with memories,

With starry feelings quivered through.

Thy voice is like a fountain

Leaping up in sunshine bright,

And I never weary counting

Its clear droppings, lone and single, 30

Or when in one full gush they mingle,

Shooting in melodious light.

Thine is music such as yields

Feelings of old brooks and fields,

And, around this pent-up room,

Sheds a woodland, free perfume;

Oh, thus forever sing to me!

Oh, thus forever!

The green, bright grass of childhood bring to me, 39

Flowing like an emerald river,

And the bright blue skies above!

Oh, sing them back, as fresh as ever,

Into the bosom of my love—

The sunshine and the merriment,

The unsought, evergreen content,

Of that never cold time,

The joy, that, like a clear breeze, went

Through and through the old time!

Peace sits within thine eyes,

With white hands crossed in joyful rest, 50

While, through thy lips and face, arise

The melodies from out thy breast;

She sits and sings,

With folded wings

And white arms crost,

'Weep not for bygone things,

They are not lost:

The beauty which the summer time

O'er thine opening spirit shed,

The forest oracles sublime 60

That filled thy soul with joyous dread,

The scent of every smallest flower

That made thy heart sweet for an hour,

Yea, every holy influence,

Flowing to thee, thou knewest not whence,

In thine eyes to-day is seen,

Fresh as it hath ever been;

Promptings of Nature, beckonings sweet,

Whatever led thy childish feet,

Still will linger unawares 70

The guiders of thy silver hairs;

Every look and every word

Which thou givest forth to-day,

Tell of the singing of the bird

Whose music stilled thy boyish play.'

Thy voice is like a fountain,

Twinkling up in sharp starlight,

When the moon behind the mountain

Dims the low East with faintest white,

Ever darkling, 80

Ever sparkling,

We know not if 'tis dark or bright;

But, when the great moon hath rolled round,

And, sudden-slow, its solemn power

Grows from behind its black, clear-edgèd bound,

No spot of dark the fountain keepeth,

But, swift as opening eyelids, leapeth

Into a waving silver flower.