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Владимир Дмитриевич Аракин
"A few short hours, and he will rise
To give the morrow birth;
And I shall hail the main and skies,
But not my mother earth.
Deserted is my own good hall,
Its hearth is desolate;
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall;
My dog howls at the gate.
"With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go
Athwart the foaming brine;
Nor care what land thou bear'st me to,
So not again to mine.
Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves!
And when you fail my sight,
Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves!
My native Land — Good Night!"
(From "Childe Harold's Pilgrimages")
My Soul is Dark
My soul is dark — Oh! quickly string
The harp I yet can brook to hear;
And let thy gentle fingers fling
Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear.
If in this heart a hope be dear,
That sound shall charm it forth again:
If in these eyes there lurk a tear,
"Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain.
But bid the strain be wild and deep,
Nor let thy notes of joy be first:
I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep
Or else this heavy heart will burst;
For it hath been by sorrow nursed,
And ached in sleepless silence long:
And now 'tis doomed to know the worst,
And break at once — or yield to song.
She is not Fair
She is not fair to outward view,
As many maidens be;
Her loveliness I never knew
Until she smiled on me.
Oh, then I saw her eye was bright,
A well of love, a spring of light.
But now her looks are coy and cold —
To mine they ne'er reply;
And yet I cease not to behold
The love-light in her eye.
Her very frowns are sweeter far
Than smiles of other maidens are.
Those Evening Bells
Those evening bells!
Those evening bells!
How many a tale their music tells,
Of love, and home, and that sweet time,
When last I heard their soothing chime!
Those joyous hours are passed away!
And many a heart that then was gay
Within the tomb now darkly dwells
And hears no more those evening bells!
And so 'twill be when I am gone,
That tuneful peal will still ring on,
While other bards shall walk these dells,
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells!
The Daffodils
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay;
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee.
A poet could not but be gay In such a jocund company;
I gazed — and gazed — but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills And dances with the daffodils.
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
