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Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below.
Stood sunset-flush'd: and, dew'd with showery drops,
The charmed sunset linger'd low adown.
Branches they bore of that enchanted stem,
They sat them down upon the yellow sand,
THERE is sweet music here that softer falls
Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies.
And thro' the moss the ivies creep,
And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep,
Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness,
Still from one sorrow to another thrown:
Nor ever fold our wings,
And cease from wanderings,
Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm;
Nor harken what the inner spirit sings,
"There is no joy but calm!"
Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things?
Lo! in the middle of the wood,
The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud
Jiriczek, Englische Dichter.
Falls, and floats adown the air.
Lo! sweeten'd with the summer light,
The flower ripens in its place,
Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil,
Hateful is the dark-blue sky,
Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast,
In ever climbing up the climbing wave?
All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave
In silence; ripen, fall and cease:
Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease.
How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream,
Falling asleep in a half-dream!
To dream and dream, like yonder amber light, Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height; To hear each other's whisper'd speech;
Eating the Lotos day by day,
To watch the crisping ripples on the beach,
To lend our hearts and spirits wholly
Heap'd over with a mound of grass,
Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass!
Dear is the memory of our wedded lives,
And their warm tears: but all hath suffer'd change: For surely now our household hearths are cold: Our sons inherit us: our looks are strange:
And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy.
Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings
Let what is broken so remain.
Sore task to hearts worn out by many wars
And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars.
But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly,
How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly) With half-dropt eyelid still,
Beneath a heaven dark and holy,
To watch the long bright river drawing slowly
His waters from the purple hill
To hear the dewy echoes calling
From cave to cave thro' the thick-twined vine-
The Lotos blooms below the barren peak:
All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone:
Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos-dust is blown.
We have had enough of action, and of motion we, Roll'd to starboard, roll'd to larboard, when the surge was seething free,
Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains in the sea.
Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind,
Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world:
Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands, Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and fiery sands,
Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and praying hands.
But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful song Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong, Like a tale of little meaning tho' the words are strong; Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil, Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil,