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Poems-Part7_Alan Seeger(1888-1916)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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Here, among trees whose overhanging shade

Strews petals on the little droves below,



Pattering townward in the morning weighed

With greens from many an upland garden-row,



Runs an old wall; long centuries have frayed

Its scalloped edge, and passers to and fro



Heard never from beyond its crumbling height

Sweet laughter ring at noon or plaintive song at night.



But here where little lizards bask and blink

The tendrils of the trumpet-vine have run,



At whose red bells the humming bird to drink

Stops oft before his garden feast is done;



And rose-geraniums, with that tender pink

That cloud-banks borrow from the setting sun,



Have covered part of this old wall, entwined

With fair plumbago, blue as evening heavens behind.



And crowning other parts the wild white rose

Rivals the honey-suckle with the bees.



Above the old abandonedorchard shows

And all within beneath the dense-set trees,



Tall and luxuriant the rank grass grows,

That settled in its wavy depth one sees



Grass melt in leaves, the mossy trunks between,

Down fading avenues of implicated green;



Wherein no lack of flowers the verdurous night

With stars and pearly nebula o'erlay;



Azalea-boughs half rosy and half white

Shine through the green and clustering apple-spray,



Such as the fairy-queen before her knight

Waved in old story, luring him away



Where round lost isles Hesperian billows break

Or towers loom up beneath the clear, translucent lake;



And under the deep grass blue hare-bells hide,

And myrtle plots with dew-fall ever wet,



Gay tiger-lilies flammulate and pied,

Sometime on pathway borders neatly set,



Now blossom through the brake on either side,

Where heliotrope and weedy mignonette,



With vines in bloom and flower-bearing trees,

Mingle their incense all to swell the perfumed breeze,



That sprung like Hermes from his natal cave

In some blue rampart of the curving West,



Comes up the valleys where green cornfields wave,

Ravels the cloud about the mountain crest,



Breathes on the lake till gentle ripples pave

Its placid floor; at length a long-loved guest,



He steals across this plot of pleasant ground,

Waking the vocal leaves to a sweet vernal sound.



Here many a day right gladly have I sped,

Content amid the wavy plumes to lie,



And through the woven branches overhead

Watch the white, ever-wandering clouds go by,



And soaring birds make their dissolving bed

Far in the azure depths of summer sky,



Or nearer that small huntsman of the air,

The fly-catcher, dart nimbly from his leafy lair;



Pillowed at ease to hear the merry tune

Of mating warblers in the boughs above



And shrill cicadas whom the hottest noon

Keeps not from drowsy song; the mourning dove



Pours down the murmuring grove his plaintive croon

That like the voice of visionary love



Oft have I risen to seek through this green maze

(Even as my feet thread now the great world's garden-ways);



And, parting tangled bushes as I passed

Down beechen alleys beautiful and dim,



Perhaps by some deep-shaded pool at last

My feet would pause, where goldfish poise and swim,



And snowy callas' velvet cups are massed

Around the mossy, fern-encircled brim.






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