Читать книгу The Complete Poetical Works of James Russell Lowell - James Russell Lowell - Страница 188

O dwellers in the valley-land,

Who in deep twilight grope and cower,

Till the slow mountain's dial-hand

Shorten to noon's triumphal hour,

While ye sit idle, do ye think

The Lord's great work sits idle too?

That light dare not o'erleap the brink

Of morn, because 'tis dark with you?

Though yet your valleys skulk in night,

In God's ripe fields the day is cried,

And reapers, with their sickles bright,

Troop, singing, down the mountain-side:

Come up, and feel what health there is

In the frank Dawn's delighted eyes,

As, bending with a pitying kiss,

The night-shed tears of Earth she dries!

The Lord wants reapers: oh, mount up,

Before night comes, and says, 'Too late!'

Stay not for taking scrip or cup,

The Master hungers while ye wait;

'Tis from these heights alone your eyes

The advancing spears of day can see,

That o'er the eastern hill-tops rise,

To break your long captivity.