Читать книгу The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 01, No. 05, March, 1858 - Various - Страница 2

  When oaken woods with buds are pink,

    And new-come birds each morning sing,—

  When fickle May on Summer's brink

    Pauses, and knows not which to fling,

  Whether fresh bud and bloom again,

  Or hoar-frost silvering hill and plain,—

  Then from the honeysuckle gray

    The oriole with experienced quest

  Twitches the fibrous bark away,

    The cordage of his hammock-nest,—

  Cheering his labor with a note

  Rich as the orange of his throat.

  High o'er the loud and dusty road

    The soft gray cup in safety swings,

  To brim ere August with its load

    Of downy breasts and throbbing wings,

  O'er which the friendly elm-tree heaves

  An emerald roof with sculptured eaves.

  Below, the noisy World drags by

    In the old way, because it must,—

  The bride with trouble in her eye,

    The mourner following hated dust:

  Thy duty, winged flame of Spring,

  Is but to love and fly and sing.

  Oh, happy life, to soar and sway

    Above the life by mortals led,

  Singing the merry months away,

    Master, not slave of daily bread,

  And, when the Autumn comes, to flee

  Wherever sunshine beckons thee!