Written by
John Greenleaf Whittier |
Oh, greenly and fair in the lands of the sun,
The vines of the gourd and the rich melon run,
And the rock and the tree and the cottage enfold,
With broad leaves all greenness and blossoms all gold,
Like that which o'er Nineveh's prophet once grew,
While he waited to know that his warning was true,
And longed for the storm-cloud, and listened in vain
For the rush of the whirlwind and red fire-rain.
On the banks of the Xenil the dark Spanish maiden
Comes up with the fruit of the tangled vine laden;
And the Creole of Cuba laughs out to behold
Through orange-leaves shining the broad spheres of gold;
Yet with dearer delight from his home in the North,
On the fields of his harvest the Yankee looks forth,
Where crook-necks are coiling and yellow fruit shines,
And the sun of September melts down on his vines.
Ah! on Thanksgiving day, when from East and from West,
From North and from South comes the pilgrim and guest;
When the gray-haired New Englander sees round his board
The old broken links of affection restored;
When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more,
And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before;
What moistens the lip and what brightens the eye,
What calls back the past, like the rich Pumpkin pie?
Oh, fruit loved of boyhood! the old days recalling,
When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts were falling!
When wild, ugly faces we carved in its skin,
Glaring out through the dark with a candle within!
When we laughed round the corn-heap, with hearts all in tune,
Our chair a broad pumpkin, -- our lantern the moon,
Telling tales of the fairy who travelled like steam
In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her team!
Then thanks for thy present! none sweeter or better
E'er smoked from an oven or circled a platter!
Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine,
Brighter eyes never watched o'er its baking, than thine!
And the prayer, which my mouth is too full to express,
Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less,
That the days of thy lot may be lengthened below,
And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin-vine grow,
And thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset sky
Golden-tinted and fair as thy own Pumpkin pie!
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Written by
Du Fu |
Good rain know season At spring be bring life Follow wind secretly enter night Moist thing soft without sound Country road cloud all black River boat fire alone bright Dawn see red wet place Flower heavy brocade government city The good rain knows its season, When spring arrives, it brings life. It follows the wind secretly into the night, And moistens all things softly, without sound. On the country road, the clouds are all black, On a riverboat, a single fire bright. At dawn one sees this place now red and wet, The flowers are heavy in the brocade city.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SESTINA III. L' aere gravato, e l' importuna nebbia. HE COMPARES LAURA TO WINTER, AND FORESEES THAT SHE WILL ALWAYS BE THE SAME. The overcharged air, the impending cloud,Compress'd together by impetuous winds,Must presently discharge themselves in rain;Already as of crystal are the streams,And, for the fine grass late that clothed the vales,Is nothing now but the hoar frost and ice. And I, within my heart, more cold than ice,Of heavy thoughts have such a hovering cloud,As sometimes rears itself in these our vales,Lowly, and landlock'd against amorous winds,Environ'd everywhere with stagnant streams,When falls from soft'ning heaven the smaller rain. Lasts but a brief while every heavy rain;And summer melts away the snows and ice,When proudly roll th' accumulated streams:[Pg 65]Nor ever hid the heavens so thick a cloud,Which, overtaken by the furious winds,Fled not from the first hills and quiet vales. But ah! what profit me the flowering vales?Alike I mourn in sunshine and in rain,Suffering the same in warm and wintry winds;For only then my lady shall want iceAt heart, and on her brow th' accustom'd cloud,When dry shall be the seas, the lakes, and streams. While to the sea descend the mountain streams,As long as wild beasts love umbrageous vales,O'er those bright eyes shall hang th' unfriendly cloudMy own that moistens with continual rain;And in that lovely breast be harden'd iceWhich forces still from mine so dolorous winds. Yet well ought I to pardon all the windsBut for the love of one, that 'mid two streamsShut me among bright verdure and pure ice;So that I pictured then in thousand valesThe shade wherein I was, which heat or rainEsteemeth not, nor sound of broken cloud. But fled not ever cloud before the winds,As I that day: nor ever streams with rainNor ice, when April's sun opens the vales. Macgregor.
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