'Twas August, and the fierce sun overhead Smote on the squalid streets of Bethnal Green,
A region desolate and wild. Black, chafing water: and afloat,
Hark! ah, the nightingale-- The tawny-throated!
One lesson, Nature, let me learn of thee, One lesson which in every wind is blown,
Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet, Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet!
I ask not that my bed of death From bands of greedy heirs be free;
Through the black, rushing smoke-bursts, Thick breaks the red flame;
Creep into thy narrow bed, Creep, and let no more be said!
Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet, Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet!
A wanderer is man from his birth. He was born in a ship
The evening comes, the fields are still. The tinkle of the thirsty rill,
Mist clogs the sunshine. Smoky dwarf houses
Others abide our question. Thou art free. We ask and ask--thou smilest and art still,
Goethe in Weimar sleeps, and Greece, Long since, saw Byron's struggle cease.
We were apart; yet, day by day, I bade my heart more constant be.
Coldly, sadly descends The autumn-evening. The field
Far, far from here, The Adriatic breaks in a warm bay
As the kindling glances, Queen-like and clear,
We cannot kindle when we will The fire which in the heart resides;
IS it so small a thing To have enjoy'd the sun,
'Twas August, and the fierce sun overhead Smote on the squalid streets of Bethnal Green,
A region desolate and wild. Black, chafing water: and afloat,
Hark! ah, the nightingale-- The tawny-throated!
One lesson, Nature, let me learn of thee, One lesson which in every wind is blown,
Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet, Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet!
I ask not that my bed of death From bands of greedy heirs be free;
Through the black, rushing smoke-bursts, Thick breaks the red flame;
Creep into thy narrow bed, Creep, and let no more be said!
Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet, Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet!
A wanderer is man from his birth. He was born in a ship
The evening comes, the fields are still. The tinkle of the thirsty rill,
Mist clogs the sunshine. Smoky dwarf houses
Others abide our question. Thou art free. We ask and ask--thou smilest and art still,
Goethe in Weimar sleeps, and Greece, Long since, saw Byron's struggle cease.
We were apart; yet, day by day, I bade my heart more constant be.
Coldly, sadly descends The autumn-evening. The field
Far, far from here, The Adriatic breaks in a warm bay
As the kindling glances, Queen-like and clear,
We cannot kindle when we will The fire which in the heart resides;
IS it so small a thing To have enjoy'd the sun,