STEPHEN PHILLIPS.

* * * * *

Thou who hast follow'd far with eyes of love

The shy and virgin sights of Spring to-day,

Sad soul, what dost thou in this happy grove?

Hast thou no pipe to touch, no strain to play,

Where Nature smiles so fair and seems to ask a lay?

Ah! she needs none! she is too beautiful.

How should I sing her? for my heart would tire,

Seeking a lovelier verse each time to cull,

In striving still to pitch my music higher:

Lovelier than any muse is she who gives the fire!

No impulse I beseech; my strains are vile:

To escape thee, Nature, restless here I rove.

Look not so sweet on me, avert thy smile!

O cease at length this fever'd breast to move!

I have loved thee in vain; I cannot speak my love.

Here sense with apathy seems gently wed:

The gloom is starr'd with flowers; the unseen trees

Spread thick and softly real above my head;

And the far birds add music to the peace,

In this dark place of sleep, where whispers never cease.

Hush, then, my pipe; vain is thy passion here;

Vain is the burning bosom of desire!

Forever hush'd, let me this silence hear,

As a sad Muse in the melodious choir

Hushes her voice, to catch the happier voices by her.

Deep-shaded will I lie, and deeper yet

In night, where not a leaf its neighbour knows;

Forget the shining of the stars, forget

The vernal visitation of the rose;

And, far from all delights, prepare my heart's repose.

Strive how I may, I cannot slumber so:

Still burns that sleepless beauty on the mind;

Still insupportable those visions glow;

And hark! my spirit's aspirations find

An answer in the leaves, a warning on the wind.

'O crave not silence thou! too soon, too sure,

Shall Autumn come, and through these branches weep:

Soon birds shall cease, and flowers no more endure;

And thou beneath the mould unwilling creep,

And silent soon shalt be in that eternal sleep.

'Green still it is, where that fair goddess strays;

Then follow, till around thee all be sere.

Lose not a vision of her passing face;

Nor miss the sound of her soft robes, that here

Sweep over the wet leaves of the fast-falling year.'

Primavera: Poems by Four Authors · 第 28 / 36 题