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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=408346" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Leaves from Australian Forests (12 Sonnets)</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I <br>A Mountain Spring</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Peace hath an altar there. The sounding feet<br>Of thunder and the ’wildering wings of rain<br>Against fire-rifted summits flash and beat,<br>And through grey upper gorges swoop and strain;<br>But round that hallowed mountain-spring remain,<br>Year after year, the days of tender heat,<br>And gracious nights, whose lips with flowers are sweet,<br>And filtered lights, and lutes of soft refrain.<br>A still, bright pool. To men I may not tell<br>The secret that its heart of water knows,<br>The story of a loved and lost repose;<br>Yet this I say to cliff and close-leaved dell:<br>A fitful spirit haunts yon limpid well,<br>Whose likeness is the faithless face of Rose. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">II <br>Laura</div><div style="margin:10px 0">If Laura—lady of the flower-soft face—<br>Should light upon these verses, she may take<br>The tenderest line, and through its pulses trace<br>What man can suffer for a woman’s sake.<br>For in the nights that burn, the days that break,<br>A thin pale figure stands in Passion’s place,<br>And peace comes not, nor yet the perished grace<br>Of youth, to keep old faiths and fires awake.<br>Ah! marvellous maid. Life sobs, and sighing saith,<br>“She left me, fleeting like a fluttered dove;<br>But I would have a moment of her breath,<br>So I might taste the sweetest sense thereof,<br>And catch from blossoming, honeyed lips of love<br>Some faint, some fair, some dim, delicious death.” </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>III <br>By a River</div><div style="margin:10px 0">By red-ripe mouth and brown, luxurious eyes<br>Of her I love, by all your sweetness shed<br>In far, fair days, on one whose memory flies<br>To faithless lights, and gracious speech gainsaid,<br>I pray you, when yon river-path I tread,<br>Make with the woodlands some soft compromise,<br>Lest they should vex me into fruitless sighs<br>With visions of a woman’s gleaming head!<br>For every green and golden-hearted thing<br>That gathers beauty in that shining place,<br>Beloved of beams and wooed by wind and wing,<br>Is rife with glimpses of her marvellous face;<br>And in the whispers of the lips of Spring<br>The music of her lute-like voice I trace. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>IV <br>Attila </div><div style="margin:10px 0">What though his feet were shod with sharp, fierce flame,<br>And death and ruin were his daily squires,<br>The Scythian, helped by Heaven’s thunders, came:<br>The time was ripe for God’s avenging fires.<br>Lo! loose, lewd trulls, and lean, luxurious liars<br>Had brought the fair, fine face of Rome to shame,<br>And made her one with sins beyond a name—<br>That queenly daughter of imperial sires!<br>The blood of elders like the blood of sheep,<br>Was dashed across the circus. Once while din<br>And dust and lightnings, and a draggled heap<br>Of beast-slain men made lords with laughter leap,<br>Night fell, with rain. The earth, so sick of sin,<br>Had turned her face into the dark to weep. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>V <br>A Reward</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Because a steadfast flame of clear intent<br>Gave force and beauty to full-actioned life;<br>Because his way was one of firm ascent,<br>Whose stepping-stones were hewn of change and strife;<br>Because as husband loveth noble wife<br>He loved fair Truth; because the thing he meant<br>To do, that thing he did, nor paused, nor bent<br>In face of poor and pale conclusions; yea!<br>Because of this, how fares the Leader dead?<br>What kind of mourners weep for him to-day?<br>What golden shroud is at his funeral spread?<br>Upon his brow what leaves of laurel, say?<br>About his breast is tied a sackcloth grey,<br>And knots of thorns deface his lordly head. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>VI To ——<br>A handmaid to the genius of thy song<br>Is sweet, fair Scholarship. ’Tis she supplies<br>The fiery spirit of the passioned eyes<br>With subtle syllables, whose notes belong<br>To some chief source of perfect melodies;<br>And glancing through a laurelled, lordly throng<br>Of shining singers, lo! my vision flies<br>To William Shakespeare! He it is whose strong,<br>Full, flute-like music haunts thy stately verse.<br>A worthy Levite of his court thou art!<br>One sent among us to defeat the curse<br>That binds us to the Actual. Yea, thy part,<br>Oh, lute-voiced lover! is to lull the heart<br>Of love repelled, its darkness to disperse. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>VII <br>The Stanza of Childe Harold</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Who framed the stanza of Childe Harold? He<br>It was who, halting on a stormy shore,<br>Knew well the lofty voice which evermore,<br>In grand distress, doth haunt the sleepless sea<br>With solemn sounds. And as each wave did roll<br>Till one came up, the mightiest of the whole,<br>To sweep and surge across the vacant lea,<br>Wild words were wedded to wild melody.<br>This poet must have had a speechless sense<br>Of some dead summer’s boundless affluence;<br>Else, whither can we trace the passioned lore<br>Of Beauty, steeping to the very core<br>His royal verse, and that rare light which lies<br>About it, like a sunset in the skies? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">VIII <br>A Living Poet</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He knows the sweet vexation in the strife<br>Of Love with Time, this bard who fain would stray<br>To fairer place beyond the storms of life,<br>With astral faces near him day by day.<br>In deep-mossed dells the mellow waters flow<br>Which best he loves; for there the echoes, rife<br>With rich suggestions of his long ago,<br>Astarte, pass with thee! And, far away,<br>Dear southern seasons haunt the dreamy eye:<br>Spring, flower-zoned, and Summer, warbling low<br>In tasselled corn, alternate come and go,<br>While gypsy Autumn, splashed from heel to thigh<br>With vine-blood, treads the leaves; and, halting nigh,<br>Wild Winter bends across a beard of snow. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">IX <br>Dante and Virgil</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When lost Francesca sobbed her broken tale<br>Of love and sin and boundless agony,<br>While that wan spirit by her side did wail<br>And bite his lips for utter misery—<br>The grief which could not speak, nor hear, nor see—<br>So tender grew the superhuman face<br>Of one who listened, that a mighty trace<br>Of superhuman woe gave way, and pale<br>The sudden light up-struggled to its place;<br>While all his limbs began to faint and fail<br>With such excess of pity. But, behind,<br>The Roman Virgil stood—the calm, the wise—<br>With not a shadow in his regal eyes,<br>A stately type of all his stately kind. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">X <br>Rest</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sometimes we feel so spent for want of rest,<br>We have no thought beyond. I know to-day,<br>When tired of bitter lips and dull delay<br>With faithless words, I cast mine eyes upon<br>The shadows of a distant mountain-crest,<br>And said “That hill must hide within its breast<br>Some secret glen secluded from the sun.<br>Oh, mother Nature! would that I could run<br>Outside to thee; and, like a wearied guest,<br>Half blind with lamps, and sick of feasting, lay<br>An aching head on thee. Then down the streams<br>The moon might swim, and I should feel her grace,<br>While soft winds blew the sorrows from my face,<br>So quiet in the fellowship of dreams.” </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XI <br>After Parting</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I cannot tell what change hath come to you<br>To vex your splendid hair. I only know<br>One grief. The passion left betwixt us two,<br>Like some forsaken watchfire, burneth low.<br>’Tis sad to turn and find it dying so,<br>Without a hope of resurrection! Yet,<br>O radiant face that found me tired and lone!<br>I shall not for the dear, dead past forget<br>The sweetest looks of all the summers gone.<br>Ah! time hath made familiar wild regret;<br>For now the leaves are white in last year’s bowers,<br>And now doth sob along the ruined leas<br>The homeless storm from saddened southern seas,<br>While March sits weeping over withered flowers. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XII <br>Alfred Tennyson</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The silvery dimness of a happy dream<br>I’ve known of late. Methought where Byron moans,<br>Like some wild gulf in melancholy zones,<br>I passed tear-blinded. Once a lurid gleam<br>Of stormy sunset loitered on the sea,<br>While, travelling troubled like a straitened stream,<br>The voice of Shelley died away from me.<br>Still sore at heart, I reached a lake-lit lea.<br>And then the green-mossed glades with many a grove,<br>Where lies the calm which Wordsworth used to love,<br>And, lastly, Locksley Hall, from whence did rise<br>A haunting song that blew and breathed and blew<br>With rare delights. ’Twas there I woke and knew<br>The sumptuous comfort left in drowsy eyes.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Henry+Kendall">Henry Kendall</a><div class=q>
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A Mountain Spring

Peace hath an altar there. The sounding feet
Of thunder and the ’wildering wings of rain
Against fire-rifted summits flash and beat,
And through grey upper gorges swoop and strain;
But round that hallowed mountain-spring re..."></div>
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