« 이전계속 »
This name, whoever chance to call,
Is there a leaf that greenly grows
Is there a word, or jest, or game,
And so to me my very name
Assumes a mournful sound.
My brother gave that name to me
That life had any pain.
No shade was on us then, save one
Of chesnuts from the hill
And through the wood our laugh did run As part thereof! The mirth being done, He calls me by it still.
Nay, do not smile! I hear in it
What none of you can hear!
I hear the birth-day's noisy bliss,
And voices, which to name me, aye
To some I never more can say
My name to me a sadness wears;
No murmurs cross my mind:
Now God be thanked for these thick tears, Which show, of those departed years,
Sweet memories left behind!
Now God be thanked for years enwrought
With love which softens yet!
Now God be thanked for every thought
Which is so tender, it hath caught
Earth's guerdon of regret!
The earth may sadden, not remove,
And e'en that mortal grief shall prove
And lead us nearer Heaven.
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
HARK! Music speaks from out the woods and streams;
Great Memory hoards it 'midst her golden themes;
Whatever thing doth bring a joy unstained
"Sing then, divine one!"-Thus a lover sighed
And checked the half-born music on her tongue.
Sing, maiden,-gentle maiden!
With a heart not overladen,
Give thy voice its way divine;
Let thine eyes, sweet spirits, shine;
Tell of those whose hopes are wrecked
Virgin dreams in ruin ended;
All the pleasure, all the pain
That bideth from the world's disdain.
Full and overflown with pleasure;
Sing, with smiles and dimpling mouth,
Opening like the sunny South,
When it breathes amongst the roses,
And a thousand thousand sweets discloses.
Sing, fair child of music, sing
Not a wind, but just a breeze
Moving in the citron trees;
Like the first sweet murmur creeping
By maiden in the silence heard,
In its matchless strength rejoice;
So it burst its fetters strong,
To the Evening Wind.
SPIRIT that breathest through my lattice, thou
Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray,
Nor I alone-a thousand bosoms round
Inhale thee in the fulness of delight;
And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound