James Henry Leigh Hunt: Все стихи поэта

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Robin Hood's Flight

Robin Hood's mother, these twelve years now,

Has been gone from her earthly home;

And Robin has paid, he scarce knew how,

A sum for a noble tomb.

The church-yard lies on a woody hill,

But open to sun and air:

It seems as if the heaven still

Were looking and smiling there.

by James Henry Leigh Hunt

How Robin And His Outlaws Lived In The Woods

Robin and his merry men

Lived just like the birds;

They had almost as many tracks as thoughts,

And whistles and songs as words.

Up they were with the earliest sign

Of the sun's up-looking eye;

But not an archer breakfasted

Till he twinkled from the sky.

by James Henry Leigh Hunt

May And The Poets

There is May in books forever;

May will part from Spenser never;

May's in Milton, May's in Prior,

May's in Chaucer, Thomson, Dyer;

May's in all the Italian books:—

She has old and modern nooks,

Where she sleeps with nymphs and elves,

In happy places they call shelves,

by James Henry Leigh Hunt

Robin Hood, A Child

It was the pleasant season yet,

When the stones at cottage doors

Dry quickly, while the roads are wet,

After the silver showers.

The green leaves they looked greener still,

And the thrush, renewing his tune,

Shook a loud note from his gladsome bill

Into the bright blue noon.

by James Henry Leigh Hunt

A Fish Answers

Amazing monster! that, for aught I know,

With the first sight of thee didst make our race

For ever stare! O flat and shocking face,

Grimly divided from the breast below!

Thou that on dry land horribly dost go

With a split body and most ridiculous pace,

Prong after prong, disgracer of all grace,

Long-useless-finned, haired, upright, unwet, slow!

by James Henry Leigh Hunt

An Angel In The House

How sweet it were, if without feeble fright,

Or dying of the dreadful beauteous sight,

An angel came to us, and we could bear

To see him issue from the silent air

At evening in our room, and bend on ours

His divine eyes, and bring us from his bowers

News of dear friends, and children who have never

Been dead indeed,—as we shall know forever.

by James Henry Leigh Hunt

Death

Death is a road our dearest friends have gone;

Why with such leaders, fear to say, "Lead on?"

Its gate repels, lest it too soon be tried,

But turns in balm on the immortal side.

Mothers have passed it: fathers, children; men

Whose like we look not to behold again;

Women that smiled away their loving breath;

Soft is the travelling on the road to death!

by James Henry Leigh Hunt

To The Grasshopper And The Cricket

Green little vaulter in the sunny grass

Catching your heart up at the feel of June,

Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon,

When ev'n the bees lag at the summoning brass;

And you, warm little housekeeper, who class

With those who think the candles come too soon,

Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune

Nick the glad silent moments as they pass;

by James Henry Leigh Hunt

Song Of Fairies Robbing An Orchard

We, the Fairies, blithe and antic,

Of dimensions not gigantic,

Though the moonshine mostly keep us,

Oft in orchards frisk and peep us.

Stolen sweets are always sweeter,

Stolen kisses much completer,

Stolen looks are nice in chapels,

Stolen, stolen, be your apples.

by James Henry Leigh Hunt

A Night-Rain In Summer

Open the window, and let the air

Freshly blow upon face and hair,

And fill the room, as it fills the night,

With the breath of the rain's sweet might.

Hark! the burthen, swift and prone!

And how the odorous limes are blown!

Stormy Love's abroad, and keeps

Hopeful coil for gentle sleeps.

by James Henry Leigh Hunt

The Nile

It flows through old hush'd Ægypt and its sands,

Like some grave mighty thought threading a dream;

And times and things, as in a vision, seem

Keeping along it their eternal stands.--

Caves, pillars, pyramids, the shepherd bands

That roam'd through the young world, the glory extreme

Of high Sesostris, and that southern beam,

The laughing queen that caught the world's great hands.

by James Henry Leigh Hunt

To A Fish

You strange, astonished-looking, angle-faced,

Dreary-mouthed, gaping wretches of the sea,

Gulping salt water everlastingly,

Cold-blooded, though with red your blood be graced,

And mute, though dwellers in the roaring waste;

And you, all shapes beside, that fishy be—

Some round, some flat, some long, all devilry,

Legless, unmoving, infamously chaste:

by James Henry Leigh Hunt