lundi 22 décembre 2014

Locksley Hall (fragment)

Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks
the sandy tracts,
And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into
cataracts.

Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere
I went to rest,
Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to
the West.

Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising thro' the
mellow shade,
Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a
silver braid.

Here about the beach I wander'd, nourishing
a youth sublime
With the fairy tales of science, and the long
result of Time ;

When the centuries behind me like a fruitful
land reposed ;
When I clung to all the present for the promise
that it closed :

When I dipt into the future far as human eye
could see ;
Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder
that would be. -

In the Spring, a fuller crimson comes upon the
robin's breast ;
In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself
another crest ;

In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the
burnish'd dove ;
In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns
to thoughts of love.

Then her cheek was pale and thinner than
should be for one so young,
And her eyes on all my motions with a mute
observance hung.

And I said, 'My cousin Amy, speak, and speak
the truth to me,
Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being
sets to thee.'

On her pallid cheek and forehead came a colour
and a light,
As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the
northern night.

And she turn'd - her bosom shaken with a
sudden storm of sighs -
All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of
hazel eyes -

Saying, 'I have hid my feelings, fearing they
should do me wrong ;'
Saying, 'Dost thou love me, cousin ?' weeping,
'I have loved thee long.'

Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on
all the chords with might ;
Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd
in music out of sight.

Many a morning on the moorland did we hear
the copses ring,
And her whisper throng'd my pulses with the
fulness of the Spring.

Many an evening by the waters did we watch
the stately ships,
And our spirits rush'd together at the touching
of the lips.

O my cousin, shallow-hearted ! O my Amy,
mine no more !
O the dreary, dreary moorland ! O the barren,
barren shore !

Alfred Lord TENNYSON, Poems (1842)