Читать книгу The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 01, No. 05, March, 1858 - Various - Страница 3

  Like some lorn abbey now, the wood

    Stands roofless in the bitter air;

  In ruins on its floor is strewed

    The carven foliage quaint and rare,

  And homeless winds complain along

  The columned choir once thrilled with song.

  And thou, dear nest, whence joy and praise

    The thankful oriole used to pour,

  Swing'st empty while the north winds chase

    Their snowy swarms from Labrador:

  But, loyal to the happy past,

  I love thee still for what thou wast.

  Ah, when the Summer graces flee

    From other nests more dear than thou,

  And, where June crowded once, I see

    Only bare trunk and disleaved bough,

  When springs of life that gleamed and gushed

  Run chilled, and slower, and are hushed,—

  I'll think, that, like the birds of Spring,

    Our good goes not without repair,

  But only flies to soar and sing

    Far off in some diviner air,

  Where we shall find it in the calms

  Of that fair garden 'neath the palms.