Written by
Elizabeth Barrett Browning |
'O DREARY life,' we cry, ' O dreary life ! '
And still the generations of the birds
Sing through our sighing, and the flocks and herds
Serenely live while we are keeping strife
With Heaven's true purpose in us, as a knife
Against which we may struggle ! Ocean girds
Unslackened the dry land, savannah-swards
Unweary sweep, hills watch unworn, and rife
Meek leaves drop year]y from the forest-trees
To show, above, the unwasted stars that pass
In their old glory: O thou God of old,
Grant me some smaller grace than comes to these !--
But so much patience as a blade of grass
Grows by, contented through the heat and cold.
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Written by
Emile Verhaeren |
In the garden of our love, summer still goes on: yonder, a golden peacock crosses an avenue; petals—pearls, emeralds, turquoises —deck the uniform slumber of the green swards.
Our blue ponds shimmer, covered with the white kiss of the snowy water-lilies; in the quincunxes, our currant bushes follow one another in procession; an iridescent insect teases the heart of a flower; the marvellous undergrowths are veined with gleams; and, like light bubbles, a thousand bees quiver along the arbours over the silver grapes.
The air is so lovely that it seems rainbow-hued; beneath the deep and radiant noons, it stirs as if it were roses of light; while, in the distance, the customary roads, like slow movements stretching their vermilion to the pearly horizon, climb towards the sun.
Indeed, the diamonded gown of this fine summer clothes no other garden with so pure a brightness. And the unique joy sprung up in our two hearts discovers its own life in these clusters of flames.
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Written by
William Topaz McGonagall |
The scenery of Baldovan
Is most lovely to see,
Near by Dighty Water,
Not far from Dundee.
'Tis health for any one
To be walking there,
O'er the green swards of Baldovan,
And in the forests fair.
There the blackbird and the mavis
Together merrily do sing
In the forest of Baldovan,
Making the woodlands to ring.
'Tis delightful to hear them
On a fine summer day,
Carolling their cheerful notes
So blythe and so gay.
Then there's the little loch near by,
Whereon can be seen every day
Numerous wild ducks swimming
And quacking in their innocent play.
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Written by
Emile Verhaeren |
To prevent the escape of any part of us from our embrace that is so intense as to be holy, and to let love shine clear through the body itself, we go down together to the garden of the flesh.
Your breasts are there like offerings and your two hands are stretched out to me; and nothing is of so much worth as the simple provender of words said and heard.
The shadow of the white boughs travels over your neck and face, and your hair unloosens its bloom in garlands on the swards.
The night is all of blue silver; the night is a lovely silent bed—gentle night whose breezes, one by one, will strip the great lilies erect in the moonlight.
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