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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=456027" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Renunciation</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">When ich Dich liebe was geht es Dich an?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I.<br>THE air is full of the peal of bells,<br>The rhythmical pealing of marriage bells;<br>But athwart and above their ringing--<br>Throbbing clear like the light of a star<br>Lost in the sunrise--I hear afar<br>The skylark's jubilant singing.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">II.<br>The clouds all woollen and white on high,<br>Like flocks of heavenly sheep go by,<br>Go through heaven's sapphire meadows;<br>While here on the earth's green meadows, deep<br>In sapphire flowers, our earthly sheep<br>Loll in their loitering shadows.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">III.<br>Come, we will sit by the wayside here,<br>They must cross this field to the chapel, dear,<br>The loved by the side for her lover.<br>Grey, through the glimmer of vernal green,<br>Its time-worn tower may just be seen<br>Through the yews which curtain it over.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">IV.<br>Nay, little brother, why should I pine?<br>Dare a violet ask that the sun should shine,<br>The shining sun shine for it solely?<br>Lowly it lifteth its meek blue eye,<br>And yields up its soul to the sun on high,<br>Nor asks for love, loving so wholly.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">V.<br>He passed by the garden where, snow-white and red,<br>I tended the flowers which give us our bread,<br>And watered my lilies and roses;<br>He passed and repassed both early and late,<br>And lingering, often would lean on the gate<br>While I tied for him one of my posies.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">VI.<br>Day after day would he pass this way,<br>And his smiling was sweet as the flowers of May,<br>Or the scent of the bee-haunted clover;<br>And a softer flame seemed to light up his eye<br>Than the lily-white moon's in the rose-hued sky,<br>Ere the blush of the May-day is over.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">VII.<br>Aye, day after day he would stop on his way,<br>While the trees were in leaf and the meadows were gay,<br>And the curled little lambs were grazing;<br>As he went, or returned in the waning light<br>From the smoke-capped city whose lamps by night<br>Turn the black clouds red with their blazing.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">VIII.<br>It's a year to-day when the young sun sets<br>Since I gave him that first bunch of violets<br>From the root on the grave of our mother.<br>Though thou seest them not with the bodily eye,<br>The language of flowers much better than I<br>I know that thou knowest, my brother.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">IX.<br>Violets--then golden daffodils<br>Which the light of the sun like a wine-cup fills--<br>Tall tulips like flames upspringing--<br>Golden-brown wallflowers bright as his locks--<br>Marigolds--balsams--and perfumed stocks<br>Whose scent's like a blackbird's singing.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">X.<br>You see, my darling, I never forget!<br>Aye, those were your own very words--ere yet<br>Our father lost his all in yon city,<br>Where the people, they say, in their struggle for gold,<br>Become like wild beasts, and the feeble and old<br>Are trampled upon without pity.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XI.<br>Poor father was better to-day: for the smile<br>Of the sun seemed to gladden him too for awhile<br>As he sat by the bright little casement,<br>With buttercups heaped on his knees without stint,<br>Which, deeming them childishly fresh from the mint,<br>He counted in chuckling amazement.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XII.<br>The air is full of the peal of bells--<br>The rhythmical pealing of marriage bells!<br>And there floats o'er the fields, o'er the fallows,<br>Borne on the wind with the wind-blown chimes,<br>From the old house hidden in older limes,<br>A chatter of maidens and swallows.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XIII.<br>Ah, give me the flowers!--the last year was all<br>In tune with the flowers from the spring to the fall,<br>And with singing of birds in the bowers;<br>And once--ah, look not so angry, dear!--<br>He whispered so softly I scarce could hear,<br>'You yourself are the flower of all flowers!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XIV.<br>But oh, when the wind was loud in the trees,<br>When the fluttering petals snowed down on the leas,<br>And the dim sun went out like an ember,<br>He stood by the gate all drenched with the mist,<br>And I gave him my last Christmas rose, which he kissed<br>For the last time that last of November.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XV.<br>Say, could he help if a hope as sweet<br>As the wild thyme had sprouted under his feet?<br>If his face in my heart is enfolden,<br>As the sun-smit globes of the summer rain<br>Reflect and hold and refract again<br>The sun, the eternally golden.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XVI.<br>He cometh, he cometh, oh brother, there!<br>Ah would that you saw the glint of his hair,<br>For he looks like that saint in the story<br>Whom you loved so to hear of in days of old,<br>Till he lit up your dreams with his curls of gold,<br>Exhaling a mystical glory.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XVII.<br>The unseen wings of the morning air<br>Fan his brow and ruffle his hair<br>As he steps with a stately measure;<br>White daisies under his feet are spread,<br>White butterflies hover above his head,<br>White clouds high up in the azure:</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XVIII.<br>Pelt him with sunlit April rain,<br>Rain which ripens the earth-hid grain,<br>Which brings up the grass and the heather!<br>Hark at the peal of the bridal bells,<br>How their musical chiming swells and swells<br>As they enter the church door together.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XIX.<br>Let us go hence now--'tis over--the twain<br>One will they be when they pass here again:<br>All my flowers in their pathway I scatter;<br>Though he forget me as yesterday's rose,<br>My heart with a sweet tender feeling o'erflows:<br>If I love him, to whom can it matter?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XX.<br>Yea, let us go now; the stile, love, is here:<br>Henceforth I live but for thee. What! a tear<br>Splashed on thy hand? Nay, a drop from the shower<br>That has passed over, for yon, on that dark<br>Ominous cloud, dearest brother, the arc<br>Of the Lord's bow now breaks into flower.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Mathilde+Blind">Mathilde Blind</a><div class=q>
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I.
THE air is full of the peal of bells,
The rhythmical pealing of marriage bells;
But athwart and above their ringing--
Throbbing clear like the light of a star
Lost in the sunrise--I hear afar
The skylar..."></div>
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