酷兔英语

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to say,

Be but the breakers of men's hearts or engines of
delight:

I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their
day.

There'll be that crowd, that barbarous crowd, through
all the centuries,

And who can say but some young belle may walk and
talk men wild

Who is my beauty's equal, though that my heart denies,
But not the exact likeness, the simplicity of a child,

And that proud look as though she had gazed into the
burning sun,

And all the shapely body no tittle gone astray.
I mourn for that most lonely thing; and yet God's will

be done:
I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their

day.
THE HOST OF THE AIR

O'DRISCOLL drove with a song
The wild duck and the drake

From the tall and the tufted reeds
Of the drear Hart Lake.

And he saw how the reeds grew dark
At the coming of night-tide,

And dreamed of the long dim hair
Of Bridget his bride.

He heard while he sang and dreamed
A piper piping away,

And never was piping so sad,
And never was piping so gay.

And he saw young men and young girls
Who danced on a level place,

And Bridget his bride among them,
With a sad and a gay face.

The dancers crowded about him
And many a sweet thing said,

And a young man brought him red wine
And a young girl white bread.

But Bridget drew him by the sleeve
Away from the merry bands,

To old men playing at cards
With a twinkling of ancient hands.

The bread and the wine had a doom,
For these were the host of the air;

He sat and played in a dream
Of her long dim hair.

He played with the merry old men
And thought not of evil chance,

Until one bore Bridget his bride
Away from the merry dance.

He bore her away in his atms,
The handsomest young man there,

And his neck and his breast and his arms
Were drowned in her long dim hair.

O'Driscoll scattered the cards
And out of his dream awoke:

Old men and young men and young girls
Were gone like a drifting smoke;

But he heard high up in the air
A piper piping away,

And never was piping so sad,
And never was piping so gay.

IMITATED FROM THE JAPANESE
A MOST astonishing thing --

Seventy years have I lived;
(Hurrah for the flowers of Spring,

For Spring is here again.)
Seventy years have I lived

No ragged beggar-man,
Seventy years have I lived,

Seventy years man and boy,
And never have I danced for joy.

THE INDIAN UPON GOD
I PASSED along the water's edge below the humid trees,

My spirit rocked in evening light, the rushes round my
knees,

My spirit rocked in sleep and sighs; and saw the moor-
fowl pace

All dripping on a grassy slope, and saw them cease to
chase

Each other round in circles, and heard the eldest speak:
i{Who holds the world between His bill and made us strong} or

i{weak}
i{Is an undying moorfowl, and He lives beyond the sky.}

i{The rains are from His dripping wing, the moonbeams from}
i{His eye.}

I passed a little further on and heard a lotus talk:
i{Who made the world and ruleth it, He hangeth on a stalk,}

i{For} I i{am in His image made, and all this tinkling tide}
i{Is but a sliding drop of rain between His petals wide.}

A little way within the gloom a roebuck raised his eyes
Brimful of starlight, and he said: i{The Stamper} of i{the}

i{Skies,}
i{He is} a i{gentle roebuck; for how else,} I i{pray, could He}

i{Conceive a thing so sad and soft, a gentle thing like me?}
I passed a little further on and heard a peacock say:

i{Who made the grass and made the worms and made my feathers}
i{gay,}

i{He is a monstrouspeacock, and He waveth all the night}
i{His languid tail above us, lit with myriad spots} of i{light.}

INTO THE TWILIGHT
OUT-WORN heart, in a time out-worn,

Come clear of the nets of wrong and right;
Laugh, heart, again in the grey twilight,

Sigh, heart, again in the dew of the morn.
Your mother Eire is aways young,

Dew ever shining and twilight grey;
Though hope fall from you and love decay,

Burning in fires of a slanderous tongue.
Come, heart, where hill is heaped upon hill:

For there the mystical brotherhood
Of sun and moon and hollow and wood

And river and stream work out their will;
And God stands winding His lonely horn,

And time and the world are ever in flight;
And love is less kind than the grey twilight,

And hope is less dear than the dew of the morn.
IN THE SEVEN WOODS

I HAVE heard the pigeons of the Seven Woods
Make their faint thunder, and the garden bees

Hum in the lime-tree flowers; and put away
The unavailing outcries and the old bitterness

That empty the heart. I have forgot awhile
Tara uprooted, and new commonness

Upon the throne and crying about the streets
And hanging its paper flowers from post to post,

Because it is alone of all things happy.
I am contented, for I know that Quiet

Wanders laughing and eating her wild heart
Among pigeons and bees, while that Great Archer,

Who but awaits His hour to shoot, still hangs
A cloudy quiver over Pairc-na-lee.

EASTER
I HAVE met them at close of day

Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey

Eighteenth-century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head

Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said

Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done

Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion

Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I

But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:

A terrible beauty is born.
That woman's days were spent

In ignorant good-will,
Her nights in argument

Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers

When, young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers?

This man had kept a school
And rode our winged horse;

This other his helper and friend
Was coming into his force;

He might have won fame in the end,
So sensitive his nature seemed,

So daring and sweet his thought.
This other man I had dreamed

A drunken, vainglorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong

To some who are near my heart,
Yet I number him in the song;

He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;

He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:

A terrible beauty is born.
Hearts with one purpose alone

Through summer and winter seem
Enchanted to a stone

To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes from the road.

The rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud,

Minute by minute they change;
A shadow of cloud on the stream

Changes minute by minute;
A horse-hoof slides on the brim,

And a horse plashes within it;
The long-legged moor-hens dive,

And hens to moor-cocks call;
Minute by minute they live:

The stone's in the midst of all.
Too long a sacrifice

Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?

That is Heaven's part, our part
To murmur name upon name,

As a mother names her child
When sleep at last has come

On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?

No, no, not night but death;
Was it needless death after all?



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