 | Mansoul or The Riddle of the World |  |
Alone I stand, 'twixt dawning skies and grass;
Dread Night no more of Underwórld, to tread:
Dim covert galleries, lacking living breath;
Full all of ghostly terrors. Well-nigh made,
New day is óf the World: Sun cometh up.
Dread Night no more of Underwórld, to tread:
Dim covert galleries, lacking living breath;
Full all of ghostly terrors. Well-nigh made,
New day is óf the World: Sun cometh up.
A Spring-tide nightingales last blissful note,
I hear; that waked, with his empassioned lauds,
And nocturns chant, neath stars, the dew-steeped Night:
Embayed amidst sheen flickering leaves; where shrouds
Her, cherishing their fledgeling birds, his mate.
Some, yet, lewd cuckoo calls! that doth despite,
To the Worlds restful night.
I hear; that waked, with his empassioned lauds,
And nocturns chant, neath stars, the dew-steeped Night:
Embayed amidst sheen flickering leaves; where shrouds
Her, cherishing their fledgeling birds, his mate.
Some, yet, lewd cuckoo calls! that doth despite,
To the Worlds restful night.
In thicket wakes,
Where shadows lurk, wet with tears of the night;
Sweet throstle, with his warbeling joyous throat.
And with him wake all birds, that sing in the morn.
Is day already unfolding, as a bud:
Which gilds Suns first-sprung beams, with cheerful warmth.
Where shadows lurk, wet with tears of the night;
Sweet throstle, with his warbeling joyous throat.
And with him wake all birds, that sing in the morn.
Is day already unfolding, as a bud:
Which gilds Suns first-sprung beams, with cheerful warmth.
147
Is this, I see, with roses hanged, briar-bush,
Mingled with dewy flocs, of sheeps rent fleece;
A likely sign of pinfolds, on broad bent.
And hark! ah! heard I not a shrilling pipe?
Aye, and sounds some hínds loud hallo! out of the mist.
Mingled with dewy flocs, of sheeps rent fleece;
A likely sign of pinfolds, on broad bent.
And hark! ah! heard I not a shrilling pipe?
Aye, and sounds some hínds loud hallo! out of the mist.
| Mansoul or The Riddle of the World | |