3 мин
Слушать

Regeneration

A ward, and still in bonds, one dayI stole abroad;

It was high spring, and all the

Primrosed and hung with shade;

Yet was it frost within,

And surly

Blasted my infant buds, and

Like clouds eclipsed my mind.

Stormed thus,

I straight perceived my

Mere stage and show,

My walk a monstrous mountained thing,

Rough-cast with rocks and snow;

And as a pilgrim's eye,

Far from relief,

Measures the melancholy sky,

Then drops and rains for grief,

So sighed I upwards still; at last'Twixt steps and falls I reached the pinnacle, where placedI found a pair of scales;

I took them up and

In th' one, late pains;

The other smoke and pleasures weighed,

But proved the heavier grains.

With that some cried, "Away!" Straight

Obeyed, and

Full east, a fair, fresh field could spy;

Some called it Jacob's bed,

A virgin soil which

Rude feet ere trod,

Where, since he stepped there, only

Prophets and friends of God.

Here I reposed; but scarce well set,

A grove descried Of stately height, whose branches

And mixed on every side;

I entered, and once in,

Amazed to see 't,

Found all was changed, and a new spring Did all my senses greet.

The unthrift sun shot vital gold,

A thousand pieces,

And heaven its azure did unfold,

Checkered with snowy fleeces;

The air was all in spice,

And every bushA garland wore; thus fed my eyes,

But all the ear lay hush.

Only a little fountain lent Some use for ears,

And on the dumb shades language spent,

The music of her tears;

I drew her near, and

The cistern

Of divers stones, some bright and round,

Others ill-shaped and dull.

The first, pray mark, as quick as

Danced through the flood,

But the last, more heavy than the night,

Nailed to the center stood;

I wondered much, but

At last with thought,

My restless eye that still desired As strange an object brought.

It was a bank of flowers where I descried,

Though 'twas midday,

Some fast asleep, others

And taking in the ray;

Here musing long,

I heardA rushing wind Which still increased, but whence it

No where I could not find.

I turned me round, and to each

Dispatched an

To see if any leaf had made Least motion or reply,

But while I list'ning

My mind to

By knowing where 'twas, or where not,

It whispered, "Where I please.""Lord," then said I, "on me one breath,

And let me die before my death!"Excerpt - Silex Scintillans

0
0
Подарок

Henry Vaughan

Henry Vaughan (17 April 1621 – 23 April 1695) was a Welsh metaphysical poet, author, translator and physician, writing in English. He is chiefly…

Другие работы автора

Комментарии
Вам нужно войти , чтобы оставить комментарий

Сегодня читают

Мольба моя к тебе
Ryfma
Ryfma - это социальная сеть для публикации книг, стихов и прозы, для общения писателей и читателей. Публикуй стихи и прозу бесплатно.