« AnteriorContinuar »
Its arms outstretched, the druid1 wood
Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us;
And what is so rare as a day in June?
An instinct within it that reaches and towers,
1 Druid, priest of early Britain.
2 Benedicite, blessing.
3 Cap and bells, the badges of the fools, or jesters, of medieval
And, groping blindly above it for light,
Thrilling back over hills and valleys; 45 The cowslip startles in meadows green,
The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,
The little bird sits at his door in the sun,
With the deluge of summer it receives;
And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and
55 He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest, In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?
Now is the high tide of the year,
And whatever of life hath ebbed away Comes flooding back, with a ripply cheer, Into every bare inlet and creek and bay; Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it, We are happy now because God wills it; No matter how barren the past may have been, 'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green; 65 We sit in the warm shade and feel right well
How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell; We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing
That the skies are clear and the grass is growing;
That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing,
We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing,
Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how;
Every thing is upward striving;
Who knows whither the clouds have fled?
In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake;
And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe
"My golden spurs now bring to me,
100 Shall never a bed for me be spread, Nor shall a pillow be under my head, Till I begin my vow to keep;
Here on the rushes will I sleep,
And perchance there may come a vision true 105 Ere day create the world anew."
Slowly Sir Launfal's eyes grew dim, Slumber fell like a cloud on him, And into his soul the vision flew.
The crows flapped over by twos and threes,
110 In the pool drowsed the cattle up to their knees, The little birds sang as if it were
The one day of summer in all the year.
And the very leaves seemed to sing on the trees; The castle alone in the landscape lay
115 Like an outpost of winter, dull and gray;
'Twas the proudest hall in the North Countree, And never its gates might opened be, Save to lord or lady of high degree;
Summer besieged it on every side,
Over the hills and out of sight;
Green and broad was every tent, And out of each a murmur went Till the breeze fell off at night.
The drawbridge dropped with a surly clang,
Had cast them forth: so, young and strong,
Sir Launfal flashed forth in his unscarred mail,
It was morning on hill and stream and tree,