Главная • Биографии • Стихи по темам • Случайное стихотворение • Переводчики • Ссылки • Антологии
Рейтинг поэтов • Рейтинг стихотворений
I have been long without a home, And yearned too much for one; And scanty are the deeds of faith My lonely heart hath done: For many a night my weary bed Hath felt the weak tears run. Cold armour of ambitious dreams I bade my soul to wear, And to false friendship's wildfire sweet Have laid my spirit bare; And some few times pure heavenly thoughts Awhile have lighted there. But still my sickness grew, and still The fever gained worse power; And every star that gentlest shone Above my dreary tower Hath waned long since, or waneth now, More palely every hour. But I have felt thy light low voice, Thy soft eye's languid beam, And light and colour have come back Unto my purest dream, And to my heart the old fresh blood Hath mounted in a stream. Health, power, deep gladness have come back With shouts and songs of bliss; Of all my loves in this bright crowd There is not one I miss— Oh! never mortal soul hath had A wakening like this! No tossing now on feverish thoughts, No sick heart's burning swell, No waiting day by day to bid Each new false hope farewell, Free, without chains, my spirit starts And breaks the long dull spell. It is not passion's lurid light, Nor friendship's meteor way, False gleams that through pale summer nights From far-off tempests play, But one rich golden orb that shines Steady and large all day A full, warm, fostering light wherein The heart's best foliage springs, A flame to whose sweet sternness faith Each brittle purpose brings, An altar-fire where hope is fed, And prayer and praise find wings. Thou art too young for me to tell My hidden love to thee; And, till fit season, it must burn In darkest privacy, For years must pass and fortunes change Till such fit season be. Young as thou art, hadst thou but seen This withered heart before, And poured thy love, as o'er some plant Thou dost fresh water pour, And watched the fragrance and the hue Grow into it once more— Thou wouldst, mayhap, have felt within Thy first and sweetest strife, And marvelled much at the new taste And power it gave to life; And so less like a dream had been My first dream of a Wife.
Frederick William Faber's other poems:
Poems of another poets with the same name (Стихотворения других поэтов с таким же названием):
Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1191
Английская поэзия. Адрес для связи email@example.com