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the home book of verse-3-第27部分
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And passes in a tear; …
Some boyish vision of his Eastern village;
Of uneventful toil;
Where golden harvests followed quiet tillage
Above a peaceful soil。
One moment only; for the pick; uplifting;
Through root and fibre cleaves;
And on the muddy current slowly drifting
Are swept thy bruised leaves。
And yet; O poet; in thy homely fashion;
Thy work thou dost fulfil;
For on the turbid current of his passion
Thy face is shining still!
Bret Harte '1839…1902'
THE PRIMROSE
Ask me why I send you here
This sweet Infanta of the year?
Ask me why I send to you
This Primrose; thus bepearled with dew?
I will whisper to your ears: …
The sweets of love are mixed with tears。
Ask me why this flower does show
So yellow…green; and sickly too?
Ask me why the stalk is weak
And bending; yet it doth not break?
I will answer: … These discover
What fainting hopes are in a lover。
Robert Herrick '1591…1674'
TO PRIMROSES FILLED WITH MORNING DEW
Why do ye weep; sweet babes? Can tears
Speak grief in you;
Who were but born
Just as the modest morn
Teemed her refreshing dew?
Alas; you have not known that shower
That mars a flower;
Nor felt the unkind
Breath of a blasting wind;
Nor are ye worn with years;
Or warped; as we;
Who think it strange to see
Such pretty flowers; like to orphans young;
To speak by tears; before ye have a tongue。
Speak; whimpering younglings; and make known
The reason why
Ye droop and weep;
Is it for want of sleep;
Or childish lullaby?
Or that ye have not seen as yet
The violet?
Or brought a kiss
From that Sweet…heart; to this?
… No; no; this sorrow shown
By your tears shed;
Would have this lecture read;
That things of greatest; so of meanest worth;
Conceived with grief are; and with tears brought forth。
Robert Herrick '1591…1674'
TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE
Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire!
Whose modest form; so delicately fine;
Was nursed in whirling storms
And cradled in the winds;
Thee; when young Spring first questioned Winter's sway;
And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight;
Thee on this bank he threw
To mark his victory。
In this low vale; the promise of the year;
Serene; thou openest to the nipping gale;
Unnoticed and alone;
Thy tender elegance。
So Virtue blooms; brought forth amid the storms
Of chill adversity; in some lone walk
Of life she rears her head;
Obscure and unobserved;
While every bleaching breeze that on her blows
Chastens her spotless purity of breast;
And hardens her to bear
Serene the ills of life。
Henry Kirke White '1785…1806'
THE RHODORA
On Being Asked Whence Is The Flower
In May; when sea…winds pierced our solitudes;
I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods;
Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook;
To please the desert and the sluggish brook。
The purple petals; fallen in the pool;
Made the black water with their beauty gay;
Here might the red…bird come his plumes to cool;
And court the flower that cheapens his array。
Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why
This charm is wasted on the earth and sky;
Tell them; dear; that if eyes were made for seeing;
Then Beauty is its own excuse for being:
Why thou wert there; O rival of the rose!
I never thought to ask; I never knew:
But; in my simple ignorance; suppose
The self…same Power that brought me there brought you。
Ralph Waldo Emerson '1803…1882'
THE ROSE
A rose; as fair as ever saw the North;
Grew in a little garden all alone;
A sweeter flower did Nature ne'er put forth;
Nor fairer garden yet was never known:
The maidens danced about it morn and noon;
And learned bards of it their ditties made;
The nimble fairies by the pale…faced moon
Watered the root and kissed her pretty shade。
But well…a…day! … the gardener careless grew;
The maids and fairies both were kept away;
And in a drought the caterpillars threw
Themselves upon the bud and every spray。
God shield the stock! If heaven send no supplies;
The fairest blossom of the garden dies。
William Browne '1591…1643'
WILD ROSES
On long; serene midsummer days
Of ripening fruit and yellow grain;
How sweetly; by dim woodland ways;
In tangled hedge or leafy lane;
Fair wild…rose thickets; you unfold
Those pale pink stars with hearts of gold!
Your sleek patrician sisters dwell
On lawns where gleams the shrub's trim bosk;
In terraced gardens; tended well;
Near pebbled walk and quaint kiosk。
In costliest urns their colors rest;
They beam on beauty's fragrant breast!
But you in lowly calm abide;
Scarce heeded save by breeze or bee;
You know what splendor; pomp and pride
Full oft your brilliant sisters see;
What sorrow too; and bitter fears;
What mad farewells and hopeless tears。
How some are kept in old; dear books;
That once in bridal wreaths were worn;
How some are kissed; with tender looks;
And later tossed aside with scorn;
How some their taintless petals lay
On icy foreheads; pale as they!
So; while these truths you vaguely guess;
A…bloom in many a lonesome spot;
Shy roadside roses; may you bless
The fate that rules your modest lot;
Like rustic maids that meekly stand
Below the ladies of their land!
Edgar Fawcett '1847…1904'
THE ROSE OF MAY
Ah! there's the lily; marble pale;
The bonny broom; the cistus frail;
The rich sweet pea; the iris blue;
The larkspur with its peacock hue;
All these are fair; yet hold I will
That the Rose of May is fairer still。
'Tis grand 'neath palace walls to grow;
To blaze where lords and ladies go;
To hang o'er marble founts; and shine
In modern gardens; trim and fine;
But the Rose of May is only seen
Where the great of other days have been。
The house is mouldering stone by stone;
The garden…walks are overgrown;
The flowers are low; the weeds are high;
The fountain…stream is choked and dry;
The dial…stone with moss is green;
Where'er the Rose of May is seen。
The Rose of May its pride displayed
Along the old stone balustrade;
And ancient ladies; quaintly dight;
In its pink blossoms took delight;
And on the steps would make a stand
To scent its fragrance … fan in hand。
Long have been dead those ladies gay;
Their very heirs have passed away;
And their old portraits; prim and tall;
Are mouldering in the mouldering hall;
The terrace and the balustrade
Lie broken; weedy and decayed。
But blithe and tall the Rose of May
Shoots upward through the ruin gray;
With scented flower; and leaf pale green;
Such rose as it hath never been;
Left; like a noble deed; to grace
The memory of an ancient race。
Mary Howitt '1799…1888'
A ROSE
Blown in the morning; thou shalt fade ere noon。
What boots a life which in such haste forsakes thee?
Thou'rt wondrous frolic; being to die so soon;
And passing proud a little color makes thee。
If thee thy brittle beauty so deceives;
Know then the thing that swells thee is thy bane;
For the same beauty cloth; in bloody leaves;
The sentence of thy early death contain。
Some clown's coarse lungs will poison thy sweet flower;
If by the careless plough thou shalt be torn;
And many Herods lie in wait each hour
To murder thee as soon as thou art born …
Nay; force thy bud to blow … their tyrant breath
Anticipating life; to hasten death!
Richard Fanshawe '1608…1666'
THE SHAMROCK
When April rains make flowers bloom
And Johnny…jump…ups come to light;
And clouds of color and perfume
Float from the orchards pink and white;
I see my shamrock in the rain;
An emerald spray with raindrops set;
Like jewels on Spring's coronet;
So fair; and yet it breathes of pain。
The shamrock on an older shore
Sprang from a rich and sacred soil
Where saint and hero lived of yore;
And where their sons in sorrow toil;
And here; transplanted; it to me
Seems weeping for the soil it left:
The diamonds that all others see
Are tears drawn from its heart bereft。
When April rain makes flowers grow;
And sparkles on their tiny buds
That in June nights will over…blow
And fill the world with scented floods;
The lonely shamrock in our land …
So fine among the clover leaves …
For the old springtime often grieves; …
I feel its tears upon my hand。
Maurice Francis Egan '1852…1924'
TO VIOLETS
Welcome; maids of honor;
You do bring
In the Spring;
And wait upon her。
She has virgins many;
Fresh and fair;
Yet you are
More sweet than any。
You're the maiden posies;
And; so graced;
To be placed
'Fore damask roses。
Yet; though thus respected;
By and by
Ye do lie;
Poor girls; neglected。
Robert Herrick '1591…1674'
THE VIOLET
O faint; delicious; spring…time violet!
Thine odor; like a key;
Turns noiselessly in memory's wards to let
A thought of sorrow free。
The breath of distant fields upon my brow
Blows through that open door
The sound of wind…borne bells; more sweet and low;
And sadder than of yore。
It comes afar; from that beloved place;
And that beloved hour;
When life hung ripening in love's golden grace;
Like grapes above a bower。
A spring goes singing through its reedy grass;
The lark sings o'er my head;
Drowned in the sky … O; pass; ye visions; pass!
I would that I were dead! …
Why hast thou opened that forbidden door;
From which I ever flee?
O vanished Joy! O Love; that art no more;
Let my vexed spirit be!
O violet! thy odor through my brain
Hath searched; and stung to grief
This sunny day; as if a curse did stain
Thy velvet leaf。
William Wetmore Story '1819…1895'
TO A WOOD…VIOLET
In this secluded shrine;
O miracle of grace;
No mortal eye but mine
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