Читать книгу The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 04, No. 23, September, 1859 - Various - Страница 3

The day that brightens half the earth

Is night to half. Ah, sweet!

One's mourning is another's mirth;—

You wear your bright years like a crown,—

While mine, dead garlands, tangle down

In chains about my feet.

The breeze which wakes the folded flower

Sweeps dead leaves from the tree;—

So partial Time, as hour by hour

He tells the rapid years,—cheu!

Brings bloom and beauty still to you,

But leaves his blight with me.

The rain which calls the violet up

Out of the moistened mould

Shatters the wind-flower's fragile cup;—

For even Nature has her pets,

And, favoring the new, forgets

To love and spare the old.

The shower which makes the bud a rose

Beats off the lilac-bloom.

I am a lilac,—so life goes,—

A lilac that has outlived May;—

You are a blush-rose. Welladay!

I pass, and give you room!