Augusta Davies Webster: Все стихи поэта

Все стихи Оригиналы Переводы

« ‹ 1 2 3 4 5 › »

Young Laughters, and My Music!

Young laughters, and my music! Aye till now

The voice can reach no blending minors near;

'Tis the bird's trill because the spring is here

And spring means trilling on a blossomy bough;

'Tis the spring joy that has no why or how,

But sees the sun and hopes not nor can fear—

Spring is so sweet and spring seems all the year.

Dear voice, the first-come birds but trill as thou.

by Augusta Davies Webster

In an Almshouse

Oh the dear summer evening! How the air

is mellow with the delicate breath of flowers

and wafts of hay scent from the sunburnt swathes:

how the glad song of life comes everywhence,

from thousand harmless voices, from blithe birds

that twitter on incessant sweet good-nights,

from homeward bees that, through the clover tufts,

stray booming, pilfering treasures to the last,

by Augusta Davies Webster

Tis Hard

'Tis hard that the full summer of our round

Is but the turn where winter's sign-post's writ;

That to have reached the best is leaving it;

That final loss bears date from having found.

So some proud vessel in a narrow sound

Sails at high water with the fair wind fit,

And lo! the ebb along the sandy spit,

Lower and lower till she jars, aground.

by Augusta Davies Webster

Farewell

FAREWELL: we two shall still meet day by day,

Live side by side;

But never more shall heart respond to heart.

Two stranger boats can drift adown one tide,

Two branches on one stem grow green apart.

Farewell, I say.

Farewell: chance travellers, as the path they tread,

Change words and smile,

by Augusta Davies Webster

Coming Home

Five minutes here, and they must steal two more!

shameful! Here have I been five mortal years

and not seen home nor one dear kindred face,

and these abominable slugs, this guard,

this driver, porters—what are they about?—

keep us here motionless, two minutes, three.—

Aha! at last!

Good! We shall check our minutes;

by Augusta Davies Webster

Medea in Athens

Dead is he? Yes, our stranger guest said dead—

said it by noonday, when it seemed a thing

most natural and so indifferent

as if the tale ran that a while ago

there died a man I talked with a chance hour

when he by chance was near me. If I spoke

"Good news for us but ill news for the dead

when the gods sweep a villain down to them,"

by Augusta Davies Webster

Safe

Wild wintry wind, storm through the night,

Dash the black clouds against the sky,

Hiss through the billows seething white,

Fling the rock-surf in spray on high.

Hurl the high seas on harbour bars,

Madden them with thy havoc-shriek

Against the crimson beacon-stars —

Thy rage no more can make me weak.

by Augusta Davies Webster

She Has Made Me Wayside Posies

She has made me wayside posies: here they stand,

Bringing fresh memories of where they grew.

As new-come travellers from a world we knew

Wake every while some image of their land,

So these whose buds our woodland breezes fanned

Bring to my room the meadow where they blew,

The brook-side cliff, the elms where wood-doves coo—

And every flower is dearer for her hand.

by Augusta Davies Webster

Birds Sing I Love You, Love

Birds sing "I love you, love" the whole day through,

And not another song can they sing right;

But, singing done with, loving's done with quite,

The autumn sunders every twittering two.

And I'd not have love make too much ado

With sweet parades of fondness and delight,

Lest iterant wont should make caresses trite,

Love-names mere cuckoo ousters of the true.

by Augusta Davies Webster

Dear love, good-night

DEAR love, good-night. And, tender sleep

,Seal up her lids like these drowsed flowers,

To make day fair when they unclose.

Be hushed around her, Night, and keep

Thy silent guard on her repose;

But speed thine hours.

Dear love, sleep on. This weary space

I wake and long for day and thee,

by Augusta Davies Webster

A Preacher

"Lest that by any means

When I have preached to others I myself

Should be a castaway." If some one now

Would take that text and preach to us that preach, —

Some one who could forget his truths were old

And what were in a thousand bawling mouths

While they filled his — some one who could so throw

His life into the old dull skeletons

by Augusta Davies Webster

If?

If I should die this night, (as well might be,

So pain has on my weakness worked its will),

And they should come at morn and look on me

Lying more white than I am wont, and still

In the strong silence of unchanging sleep,

And feel upon my brow the deepening chill,

And know me gathered to His time-long keep,

The quiet watcher over all men's rest,

by Augusta Davies Webster