Diana's Philosophy
What more delight upon a summer morn,
Diana said, than up the mountain side,
To range once more, by height on height upborne
Into the nimble air? Ah, then the pride —
The pride of life is all a song as cheerly sounds the horn!
What greater cheer upon a winter night,
Diana said, than with old books of rhyme,
A fir-wood fire, a lamp of yellow light,
To warm one's thought, as we have many a time,
When round the walls the white north wind blows cold from Caera's height.
How little did the silver mornings dream,
Amid their apple-blossom, of these boughs
That beat the roof, and whip the panes, and seem
The wind's witch-fingers that would hurt the house:
How little dreams the winter-dark of the May-morning's gleam.
Pile high the hearth, she said; — and knelt anear;
This crimson coal is but the sun's lost glow.
So Mayday morns may haunt December's ear,
Our witch-tree was a fairy long ago:
When winter-nights were summer-morns, whose light makes dark more dear.
Diana said, than up the mountain side,
To range once more, by height on height upborne
Into the nimble air? Ah, then the pride —
The pride of life is all a song as cheerly sounds the horn!
What greater cheer upon a winter night,
Diana said, than with old books of rhyme,
A fir-wood fire, a lamp of yellow light,
To warm one's thought, as we have many a time,
When round the walls the white north wind blows cold from Caera's height.
How little did the silver mornings dream,
Amid their apple-blossom, of these boughs
That beat the roof, and whip the panes, and seem
The wind's witch-fingers that would hurt the house:
How little dreams the winter-dark of the May-morning's gleam.
Pile high the hearth, she said; — and knelt anear;
This crimson coal is but the sun's lost glow.
So Mayday morns may haunt December's ear,
Our witch-tree was a fairy long ago:
When winter-nights were summer-morns, whose light makes dark more dear.
Translation:
Language:
Reviews
No reviews yet.