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Heartholm ONCE more upon this happy hill Doth yet my free foot bound at will; About those cliffs, whose hearts of stone To spade and mattock inly groan, Well to reward the miner’s pains, In wealth from out a thousand veins, Poor and past use, in age resigned To ruin like our human kind, And now and then o’erwhelming all, Midst sullen thunder, in their fall; Above the moorlands, brown and shorn, On whose rough beds the winds are born, From hardy north-blast, flinging wreaths Of cradled snow, to that which breathes Too infant-like to bear its tale Of heathery sweetness to the vale; And through those woods, my boyhood knew And loved so well, whose memories strew Their pathways thick as leaves Upon the dreary autumn eves: Once more I tread these pleasant fields With chainless heart, fair Devon yields Once more the old accustomed rest, Most welcome as most absent guest. James Payn's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1181 |
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