Поэтический мир прерафаэлитов - Уильям Моррис, Альфред Теннисон читать книгу онлайн полностью

На первую страницу

Our ministering two angels look surprise

On one another, as they strike athwart

Their wings in passing. Thou, bethink thee, art

A guest for queens to social pageantries,

With gages from a hundred brighter eyes

Than tears even can make mine, to play thy part

Of chief musician. What hast thou to do

With looking from the lattice-lights at me,

A poor, tired, wandering singer, singing through

The dark, and leaning up a cypress tree?

The chrism is on thine head, — on mine, the dew, —

And Death must dig the level where these agree.

XIV

If thou must love me, let it be for nought

Except for love’s sake only. Do not say,

‘I love her for her smile — her look — her way

Of speaking gently — for a trick of thought

That falls in well with mine, and certes brought

A sense of pleasant ease on such a day’ —

For these things in themselves, Beloved, may

Be changed, or change for thee, — and love, so wrought,

May be unwrought so. Neither love me for

Thine own dear pity’s wiping my cheeks dry, —

A creature might forget to weep, who bore

Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby!

But love me for love’s sake, that evermore

Thou mayst love on, through love’s eternity.

XXI

Say over again, and yet once over again,

That thou dost love me. Though the word repeated

Should seem ‘a cuckoo song,’ as thou dost treat it,

Remember, never to the hill or plain,

Valley and wood, without her cuckoo-strain

Comes the fresh Spring in all her green completed.

Beloved, I, amid the darkness greeted

By a doubtful spirit-voice, in that doubt’s pain,

Cry, ‘Speak once more — thou lovest!’ Who can fear

Too many stars, though each in heaven shall roll,

Too many flowers, though each shall crown the year?

Say thou dost love me, love me, love me — toll

The silver iterance! — only minding, Dear,

To love me also in silence with thy soul.

XXIV

Let the world’s sharpness, like a clasping knife,

Shut in upon itself and do no harm

In this close hand of Love, now soft and warm,

And let us hear no sound of human strife

After the click of the shutting. Life to life —

I lean upon thee, Dear, without alarm,

And feel as safe as guarded by a charm

Against the stab of worldlings, who if rife

Are weak to injure. Very whitely still

The lilies of our lives may reassure

Their blossoms from their roots, accessible

Alone to heavenly dews that drop not fewer,

Growing straight, out of man’s reach, on the hill.

God only, who made us rich, can make us poor.

XXVI

I lived with visions for my company

Перейти на страницу

Поэтический мир прерафаэлитов | страница 35