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New Poems, and Variant Readings. Robert Louis StevensonЧитать онлайн книгу.

New Poems, and Variant Readings - Robert Louis Stevenson


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that lit

       The cloudy promontories—the real charm was

       That gilded hills and woods

       And walked beside me thro’ the solitudes.

      The sun is set. My heart is widowed now

       Of that companion-thought. Alone I plough

       The seas of life, and trace

       A separate furrow far from her and grace.

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      About the sheltered garden ground

       The trees stand strangely still.

       The vale ne’er seemed so deep before,

       Nor yet so high the hill.

      An awful sense of quietness,

       A fulness of repose,

       Breathes from the dewy garden-lawns,

       The silent garden rows.

      As the hoof-beats of a troop of horse

       Heard far across a plain,

       A nearer knowledge of great thoughts

       Thrills vaguely through my brain.

      I lean my head upon my arm,

       My heart’s too full to think;

       Like the roar of seas, upon my heart

       Doth the morning stillness sink.

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      As when the hunt by holt and field

       Drives on with horn and strife,

       Hunger of hopeless things pursues

       Our spirits throughout life.

      The sea’s roar fills us aching full

       Of objectless desire—

       The sea’s roar, and the white moon-shine,

       And the reddening of the fire.

      Who talks to me of reason now?

       It would be more delight

       To have died in Cleopatra’s arms

       Than be alive to-night.

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      I know not how, but as I count

       The beads of former years,

       Old laughter catches in my throat

       With the very feel of tears.

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      The air was full of sun and birds,

       The fresh air sparkled clearly.

       Remembrance wakened in my heart

       And I knew I loved her dearly.

      The fallows and the leafless trees

       And all my spirit tingled.

       My earliest thought of love, and Spring’s

       First puff of perfume mingled.

      In my still heart the thoughts awoke,

       Came lone by lone together—

       Say, birds and Sun and Spring, is Love

       A mere affair of weather?

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      The summer sun shone round me,

       The folded valley lay

       In a stream of sun and odour,

       That sultry summer day.

      The tall trees stood in the sunlight

       As still as still could be,

       But the deep grass sighed and rustled

       And bowed and beckoned me.

      The deep grass moved and whispered

       And bowed and brushed my face.

       It whispered in the sunshine:

       “The winter comes apace.”

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      You looked so tempting in the pew,

       You looked so sly and calm—

       My trembling fingers played with yours

       As both looked out the Psalm.

      Your heart beat hard against my arm,

       My foot to yours was set,

       Your loosened ringlet burned my cheek

       Whenever they two met.

      O little, little we hearkened, dear,

       And little, little cared,

       Although the parson sermonised,

       The congregation stared.

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      As Love and Hope together

       Walk by me for a while,

       Link-armed the ways they travel

       For many a pleasant mile—

       Link-armed and dumb they travel,

       They sing not, but they smile.

      Hope leaving, Love commences

       To practise on the lute;

       And as he sings and travels

       With lingering, laggard foot,

       Despair plays obligato

       The sentimental flute.

      Until in singing garments

       Comes royally, at call—

       Comes limber-hipped Indiff’rence

       Free stepping, straight and tall—

       Comes singing and lamenting,

       The sweetest pipe of all.

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      With caws and chirrupings, the woods

       In this thin sun rejoice.

       The Psalm seems but the little kirk

       That sings with its own voice.

      The


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