Читать книгу Afterwhiles - James Whitcomb Riley - Страница 6

Table of Contents

The Beautiful City! Forever

Its rapturous praises resound;

We fain would behold it—but never

A glimpse of its dory is found:

We slacken our lips at the tender

White breasts of our mothers to hear

Of its marvellous beauty and splendor—;

We see—but the gleam of a tear!

Yet never the story may tire us—

First graven in symbols of stone—

Rewritten on scrolls of papyrus

And parchment, and scattered and blown

By the winds of the tongues of all nations,

Like a litter of leaves wildly whirled

Down the rack of a hundred translations,

From the earliest lisp of the world.

We compass the earth and the ocean,

From the Orient's uttermost light,

To where the last ripple in motion

Lips hem of the skirt of the night—,

But the Beautiful City evades us—

No spire of it glints in the sun—

No glad-bannered battlement shades us

When all our Journey is done.

Where lies it? We question and listen;

We lean from the mountain, or mast,

And see but dull earth, or the glisten

Of seas inconceivably vast:

The dust of the one blurs our vision,

The glare of the other our brain,

Nor city nor island Elysian

In all of the land or the main!

We kneel in dim fanes where the thunders

Of organs tumultuous roll,

And the longing heart listens and wonders,

And the eyes look aloft from the soul:

But the chanson grows fainter and fainter,

Swoons wholly away and is dead;

AND our eyes only reach where the painter

Has dabbled a saint overhead.

The Beautiful City! O mortal,

Fare hopefully on in thy quest,

Pass down through the green grassy portal

That leads to the Valley of Rest;

There first passed the One who, in pity

Of all thy great yearning, awaits

To point out The Beautiful City,

And loosen the trump at the gates.