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.She does not heed thee, wherefore should she heed,She knows Endymion is not far away,'Tis I, 'tis I, whose soul is as the reedWhich has no message of its own to play,So pipes another's bidding, it is I,Drifting with every wind on the wide sea of misery.Ah! the brown bird has ceased: one exquisite trillAbout the sombre woodland seems to cling,Dying in music, else the air is still,So still that one might hear the bat's small wingWander and wheel above the pines, or tellEach tiny dewdrop dripping from the blue-bell's brimming cell.And far away across the lengthening wold,Across the willowy flats and thickets brown,Magdalen's tall tower tipped with tremulous goldMarks the long High Street of the little town,And warns me to return; I must not wait,Hark! 'tis the curfew booming from the bell at Christ Church gate.Oscar Wildewww.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 153 The Dole Of The King's Daughter(BRETON.)SEVEN stars in the still water,And seven in the sky;Seven sins on the King's daughter,Deep in her soul to lie.Red roses are at her feet,(Roses are red in her red-gold hair)And O where her bosom and girdle meetRed roses are hidden there.Fair is the knight who lieth slainAmid the rush and reed,See the lean fishes that are fainUpon dead men to feed.Sweet is the page that lieth there,(Cloth of gold is goodly prey,)See the black ravens in the air,Black, O black as the night are they.What do they there so stark and dead?(There is blood upon her hand)Why are the lilies flecked with red?(There is blood on the river sand.)There are two that ride from the south and east,And two from the north and west,For the black raven a goodly feast,For the King's daughter rest.There is one man who loves her true,(Red, O red, is the stain of gore!)He hath duggen a grave by the darksome yew,(One grave will do for four.)No moon in the still heaven,In the black water none,The sins on her soul are seven,The sin upon his is one.Oscar Wildewww.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 154 The Dole Of The King's Daughter (Breton)Seven stars in the still water,And seven in the sky;Seven sins on the King's daughter,Deep in her soul to lie.Red roses are at her feet,(Roses are red in her red-gold hair)And O where her bosom and girdle meetRed roses are hidden there.Fair is the knight who lieth slainAmid the rush and reed,See the lean fishes that are fainUpon dead men to feed.Sweet is the page that lieth there,(Cloth of gold is goodly prey,)See the black ravens in the air,Black, O black as the night are they.What do they there so stark and dead?(There is blood upon her hand)Why are the lilies flecked with red?(There is blood on the river sand.)There are two that ride from the south and east,And two from the north and west,For the black raven a goodly feast,For the King's daughter rest.There is one man who loves her true,(Red, O red, is the stain of gore!)He hath duggen a grave by the darksome yew,(One grave will do for four.)No moon in the still heaven,In the black water none,The sins on her soul are seven,The sin upon his is one.Oscar Wildewww.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 155 The Garden Of ErosIT is full summer now, the heart of June,Not yet the sun-burnt reapers are a-stirUpon the upland meadow where too soonRich autumn time, the season's usurer,Will lend his hoarded gold to all the trees,And see his treasure scattered by the wild and spendthrift breeze.Too soon indeed! yet here the daffodil,That love-child of the Spring, has lingered onTo vex the rose with jealousy, and stillThe harebell spreads her azure pavilion,And like a strayed and wandering revellerAbandoned of its brothers, whom long since June's messengerThe missel-thrush has frighted from the glade,One pale narcissus loiters fearfullyClose to a shadowy nook, where half afraidOf their own loveliness some violets lieThat will not look the gold sun in the faceFor fear of too much splendour,--ah! methinks it is a placeWhich should be trodden by PersephoneWhen wearied of the flowerless fields of Dis!Or danced on by the lads of Arcady!The hidden secret of eternal blissKnown to the Grecian here a man might find,Ah! you and I may find it now if Love and Sleep be kind.There are the flowers which mourning HeraklesStrewed on the tomb of Hylas, columbine,Its white doves all a-flutter where the breezeKissed them too harshly, the small celandine,That yellow-kirtled chorister of eve,And lilac lady's-smock,--but let them bloom alone, and leaveYon spired holly-hock red-crocketedTo sway its silent chimes, else must the bee,Its little bellringer, go seek insteadSome other pleasaunce; the anemoneThat weeps at daybreak, like a silly girlBefore her love, and hardly lets the butterflies unfurlTheir painted wings beside it,--bid it pineIn pale virginity; the winter snowWill suit it better than those lips of thineWhose fires would but scorch it, rather goAnd pluck that amorous flower which blooms alone,Fed by the pander wind with dust of kisses not its own.The trumpet-mouths of red convolvulusSo dear to maidens, creamy meadow-sweetWhiter than Juno's throat and odorouswww.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 156 As all Arabia, hyacinths the feetOf Huntress Dian would be loth to marFor any dappled fawn,--pluck these, and those fond flowers which areFairer than what Queen Venus trod uponBeneath the pines of Ida, eucharis,That morning star which does not dread the sun,And budding marjoram which but to kissWould sweeten Cytheræa's lips and makeAdonis jealous,--these for thy head,--and for thy girdle takeYon curving spray of purple clematisWhose gorgeous dye outflames the Tyrian King,And fox-gloves with their nodding chalices,But that one narciss which the startled SpringLet from her kirtle fall when first she heardIn her own woods the wild tempestuous song of summer's bird,Ah! leave it for a subtle memoryOf those sweet tremulous days of rain and sun,When April laughed between her tears to seeThe early primrose with shy footsteps runFrom the gnarled oak-tree roots till all the wold,Spite of its brown and trampled leaves, grew bright with shimmeringgold.Nay, pluck it too, it is not half so sweetAs thou thyself, my soul's idolatry!And when thou art a-wearied at thy feetShall oxlips weave their brightest tapestry,For thee the woodbine shall forget its prideAnd vail its tangled whorls, and thou shalt walk on daisies pied.And I will cut a reed by yonder springAnd make the wood-gods jealous, and old PanWonder what young intruder dares to singIn these still haunts, where never foot of manShould tread at evening, lest he chance to spyThe marble limbs of Artemis and all her company.And I will tell thee why the jacinth wearsSuch dread embroidery of dolorous moan,And why the hapless nightingale forbearsTo sing her song at noon, but weeps aloneWhen the fleet swallow sleeps, and rich men feast,And why the laurel trembles when she sees the lightening east
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Tematy
IndexWilde Ride Maegan Lynn Moores
Sienkiewicz Henryk Pan Wołodyjowski 2
Christie, Agatha Noc W Bibliotece
Paul Davies Das fĂźnfte Wunder Auf der Suche nach dem Urspung des Lebens
Dav
John Norman Gor 01 Tarnsman of Gor
Picoult Jodi, Van Leer Samantha Z innej bajki
Mikołaj i Aleksandra Massie Robert K
Pratchett Terry & Baxter Stephen DÅ‚uga Ziemia #2 DÅ‚uga Wojna
obertis Carolina de Niewidoczna góra (2)