Where arches green, the livelong day,
Echo the blackbird’s roundelay,
And vulgar feet have never trod
A spot that is sacred to thought and God.
O, when I am safe in my sylvan home,
I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome;
And when I am stretched beneath the pines,
Where the evening star so holy shines,
I laugh at the lore and the pride of man,
At the sophist schools and the learned clan;
For what are they all, in their high conceit,
When man in the bush with God may meet?
Each and All
Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown
Of thee from the hill-top looking down;
The heifer that lows in the upland farm,
Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm;
The sexton, tolling his bell at noon,
Deems not that great Napoleon
Stops his horse, and lists with delight,
Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height;
Nor knowest thou what argument
Прощай!>15
Прощай, мир гордый! Мне домой;
Не друг ты мне, не друг я твой.
Брёл долго сквозь усталый сброд,
Баржо́й плыл средь могучих вод;
Я долго пеной тёк шальной,
Теперь, мир гордый, мне домой.
Прощай же, Лести рабский глаз,
Знать с многомудростью гримас,
Барыш, что знай отводит взгляд,
Постов холуйство всех подряд;
Зал людный, мостовая, суд,
Хлад душ, шажки (дела не ждут);
Идёт кто иль путь кончил свой —
Прощай, мир гордый! Мне домой.
Иду туда, где камелёк
В холмах зелёных одинок:
В краю чудесном потаён,
Укрыт в лесочках эльфов он,
Где своду зелени весь день
Дрозда напевы слать не лень,
Где нет тропы для грубых ног,
Где святы только мысль и Бог.
Коль домом я лесным храним,
Что́ мне те Греция и Рим!
Ловлю, разлёгшись под сосной,
Звезды вечерней свет святой;
Смешны людские знанья, спесь,
Софистов школы, клан их весь:
Что́ их кичливость, наконец,
Когда с бродягой сам Творец?
Вместе и порознь>16
Вон, в поле, мужлан – как алый шут —
Начхал, что с холма глазеешь тут;
Телушка мычит с горной фермы вдаль —
Прельстишься ль, нет, не её печаль;
Слал пономарь полудённый звон
Без мысли, что Наполеон
В восторге на коне замрёт,
Пока в Альпах войско течёт с высот>17;
Поди пойми, какой урок
+
Thy life to thy neighbor’s creed has lent.
All are needed by each one;
Nothing is fair or good alone.
I thought the sparrow’s note from heaven,
Singing at dawn on the alder bough;
I brought him home, in his nest, at even;
He sings the song, but it cheers not now,
For I did not bring home the river and sky; —
He sang to my ear, – they sang to my eye.
The delicate shells lay on the shore;
The bubbles of the latest wave
Fresh pearls to their enamel gave
And the bellowing of the savage sea
Greeted their safe escape to me.
I wiped away the weeds and foam,
I fetched my sea-born treasures home;
But the poor, unsightly, noisome things
Had left their beauty on the shore
With the sun and the sand and the wild uproar.
The lover watched his graceful maid,
As ’mid the virgin train she strayed,
Nor knew her beauty’s best attire
Was woven still by the snow-white choir
At last she came to his hermitage,
Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage; —
The gay enchantment was undone,
A gentle wife, but fairy none.
Then I said, ‘I covet truth;
Beauty is unripe childhood’s cheat;
I leave it behind with the games of youth:’ —
As I spoke, beneath my feet
The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath,
Running over the club-moss burrs;
I inhaled the violet’s breath;
Around me stood the oaks and firs;
Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground;
Over me soared the eternal sky,
Full of light and of deity;
Again I saw, again I heard,
The rolling river, the morning bird; —
Beauty through my senses stole;
I yielded myself to the perfect whole.
The Problem
I like a church; I like a cowl;