Edward Rowland Sill (Эдвард Роулэнд Силл)
Summer Afternoon
FAR in hollow mountain carñons Brood with purple-folded pinions, Flocks of drowsy distance-colors, on their nests; And the bare round slopes for forests Have cloud-shadows, floating forests, On their breasts. Winds are wakening and dying, Questions low with low replying, Through the oak a hushed and trembling whisper goes: Faint and rich the air with odors, Hyacinth and spicy odors Of the rose. Even the flowerless acacia Is one flower—such slender stature, With its latticed leaves a-tremble in the sun: They have shower-drops for blossoms, Quivering globes of diamond-blossoms, Every one. In the blue of heaven holy Clouds go floating, floating slowly, Pure in snowy robe and sunny silver crown; And they seem like gentle angels— Leisure-full and loitering angels, Looking down. Half the birds are wild with singing, And the rest with rhythmic winging Sing in melody of motion to the sight; Every little sparrow twitters, Cheerily chirps, and cheeps, and twitters His delight. Sad at heart amid the splendor, Dull to all the radiance tender, What can I for such a world give back again? Could I only hint the beauty— Some least shadow of the beauty, Unto men!
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