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Crass Casualty obstructs the sun and rain, And dicing Time for gladness casts a moan. . . . These purblind Doomsters had as readily strown Blisses about my pilgrimage as pain. Thomas Hardy (1840 1928) The Darkling Thrush I leant upon a coppice gate When Frost was spectre-gray, And Winter s dregs made desolate The weakening eye of day. The tangled bine-stems scored the sky Like strings of broken lyres, And all mankind that haunted nigh Had sought their household fires. The land s sharp features seemed to be The Century s corpse outleant, His crypt the cloudy canopy, The wind his death-lament. The ancient pulse of germ and birth Was shrunken hard and dry, And every spirit upon earth Seemed fervourless as I. At once a voice arose among The bleak twigs overhead In a full-hearted evensong Of joy illimited; An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small, In blast-beruffled plume, Had chosen thus to fling his soul Upon the growing gloom. So little cause for carolings Of such ecstatic sound Was written on terrestrial things Afar or nigh around, That I could think there trembled through His happy good-night air Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew And I was unaware. Thomas Moore (1779 1852) Believe Me, If All Those Endearing Young Charms Believe me, if all those endearing young charms, Which I gaze on so fondly today, Were to change by tomorrow, and fleet in my arms, Like fairy-gifts fading away, Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art, Let thy loveliness fade as it will, And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart Would entwine itself verdantly still. It is not while beauty and youth are thine own, And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear That the fervor and faith of a soul can be known, To which time will but make thee more dear; No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets, But as truly loves on to the close, As the sunflower turns on her god, when he sets, The same look which she turned when he rose. Thomas Wyatt (1503 1542) They Flee from Me They flee from me that sometime did me seek With naked foot stalking in my chamber. I have seen them gentle tame and meek That now are wild and do not remember That sometime they put themselves in danger To take bread at my hand; and now they range Busily seeking with a continual change. Thanked be fortune, it hath been otherwise Twenty times better; but once in special, In thin array after a pleasant guise, When her loose gown from her shoulders did fall, And she me caught in her arms long and small; And therewithal sweetly did me kiss, And softly said, Dear heart, how like you this? It was no dream, I lay broad waking. But all is turned thorough my gentleness Into a strange fashion of forsaking; And I have leave to go of her goodness And she also to use newfangleness. But since that I so kindely am served, I would fain know what she hath deserved. W. S. Gilbert (1836 1911) If You're Anxious for to Shine in the High Aesthetic Line Am I alone And unobserved? I am! Then let me own I'm an aesthetic sham! This air severe Is but a mere Veneer! This cynic smile Is but a wile Of guile! This costume chaste Is but good taste Misplaced! Let me confess! A languid love for lilies does not blight me! Lank limbs and haggard cheeks do not delight me! I do not care for dirty greens By any means. I do not long for all one sees That's Japanese. I am not fond of uttering platitudes In stained-glass attitudes. In short, my medievalism's affectation, Born of a morbid love of admiration! If you're anxious for to shine in the high aesthetic line as a man of culture rare, You must get up all the germs of the transcendental terms, and plant them everywhere. You must lie upon the daisies and discourse in novel phrases of your complicated state of mind. The meaning doesn't matter if it's only idle chatter of a transcendental kind. And everyone will say, As you walk your mystic way, "If this young man expresses himself in terms too deep for me, Why, what a very singularly deep young man this deep young man must be!" Be eloquent in praise of the very dull old days which have long since passed away, And convince 'em, if you can, that the reign of good Queen Anne was Culture's palmiest day. Of course you will pooh-pooh whatever's fresh and new, and declare it's crude and mean, For Art stopped short in the cultivated court of the Empress Josephine. And everyone will say, As you walk your mystic way, "If that's not good enough for him which is good enough for me, Why, what a very cultivated kind of youth this kind of youth must be!" Then a sentimental passion of a vegetable fashion must excite your languid spleen, An attachment à la Plato for a bashful young potato, or a not-too-French French bean! Though the Philistines may jostle, you will rank as an apostle in the high aesthetic band, [ Pobierz caÅ‚ość w formacie PDF ] |
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