Evening Voluntary, An
A wreath of Turkish odour winds
Among my books in red and gold.
The philosophic spirit finds
Peace through the pain of growing old.
The warm blue perfume melts and fades
Around the glowing shaft of gas;
And every nervelet that upbraids
Takes comfort from the pangs that pass.
Purer the folding air repeats
The cones of smoke that upward slope,
And lucid grows the brain that beats
Less turbid with the pulse of hope.
The spirals melt in fragrant mist,
And through that mist my books shine clear;
Life dips in soberer amethyst
The twilights of the fainting year.
Throb, winding belts of odorous light!
Youth spurns me from its brilliant zest;
But age has yet its prime delight,
For thought survives, and thought is best.
Among my books in red and gold.
The philosophic spirit finds
Peace through the pain of growing old.
The warm blue perfume melts and fades
Around the glowing shaft of gas;
And every nervelet that upbraids
Takes comfort from the pangs that pass.
Purer the folding air repeats
The cones of smoke that upward slope,
And lucid grows the brain that beats
Less turbid with the pulse of hope.
The spirals melt in fragrant mist,
And through that mist my books shine clear;
Life dips in soberer amethyst
The twilights of the fainting year.
Throb, winding belts of odorous light!
Youth spurns me from its brilliant zest;
But age has yet its prime delight,
For thought survives, and thought is best.
Translation:
Language:
Reviews
No reviews yet.