Arthur Henry Adams: Всі вірші поета

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The World Has Grown So Grey

THE world has grown so grey, love,

The weary world so wide;

And autumn seems to stay, love —

'T was autumn when you died.

And everything is strange and new,

For all my world has died with you —

It lacks the light you gave.

And sad-eyed dusk awaits alway,

by Arthur Henry Adams

My Love

SHE has tender eyes that tell

All her prim, set lips suppress —

Daring thoughts that ever dwell

Prisoned in her bashfulness;

Hints of sudden tenderness

That within her breast rebel.

Till her bosom's fall and swell

Tell her meaning all too well,

by Arthur Henry Adams

To You

SO you have come at last!

And we nestle, each in each,

As leans the pliant sea in the clean-curved limbs of her lover the beach;

Merged in each other quite,

Clinging, as in the tresses of trees dallies the troubadour night;

Faint as a perfume, soft as wine,

Yielding as moonlight — mine, all mine —

So I have found you at last!

by Arthur Henry Adams

Morning Peace

THE sudden sunbeams slant between the trees

Like solid bars of silver. moonlight kissed,

And strike the supine shadows where they rest

Stretched sleeping; while a timid, new-born Breeze

Stirs through the grasses, petulant — her eyes

Half-blinded by the clinging scarves of mist:

Her robes, that tangled through the grasses twist,

Weave as she moves sweet whispered melodies.

by Arthur Henry Adams

The Perfect Present

SO I have kissed you! And this hour is mine.

Its light along the level future lasts,

It crowns a drab eternity of Pasts!

Here soul and soul have crossed the border-line

Of self, and merged. No years can e'er untwine

This hour from us! What though to-morrow casts

The memory out, and your cold glance contrasts

With this day's rich red lips, need I repine?

by Arthur Henry Adams

To The Best Of Women, My Mother

I would give it all up at a word from you, Mother o' mine!

But the strife has begun

That I dare not shun:

Yet my heart looks home to the rest it knew,

To the questionless trust and the welcome true;

And you call to me now as you used to do, Mother o' mine!

The wonderful years that we shared are flown, Mother o' mine!

The world has won

by Arthur Henry Adams

The Coming Of Te Rauparaha

BLUE, the wreaths of smoke, like drooping banners

From the flaming battlements of sunset

Hung suspended; and within his whare

Hipe, last of Ngatiraukawa's chieftains,

Lay a-dying! Ringed about his death-bed,

Like a palisade of carven figures,

Stood the silent people of the village —

Warriors and women of his hapu —

by Arthur Henry Adams

Man and Woman

[According to Maori mythology, the god Tiki created Man by taking a

piece of clay and moistening it with his own blood. Woman was the

offspring of a sunbeam and a sylvan echo.]

THUS God made Man to cope with destiny:

Taking the common clay, God moistened it

With His red blood; and so for ever lit

That sombre grossness with divinity.

So Man for ever finds him in the mesh

by Arthur Henry Adams

The Stars

THE terrible tranquillity of space!

My soul shrinks back in sudden doubt. I fear

The myriad eyes that through the ether peer,

And chill the arrogance that dared to trace

The grave enigma of the cosmic face.

Yet through the soundless night a voice austere —

"We that you deem afar are small and near;

With lowly things and humble we have place;

by Arthur Henry Adams

To My Love

"PAINT me," you said, "a poem; give to me

A breathing thought that I may keep to kiss!"

While that low laugh that aye a mandate is

Nestled upon your lips. Call memory

To that fair moment when you heard my plea,

And in the tumult of my arms' warm bliss,

Like a frail floweret that is crushed amiss.

You thrilled to frenzied life exultantly,

by Arthur Henry Adams

The Pleiades

LAST night I saw the Pleiades again,

Faint as a drift of steam

From some tall chimney-stack;

And I remembered you as you were then:

Awoke dead worlds of dream,

And Time turned slowly back.

I saw the Pleiades through branches bare,

by Arthur Henry Adams

Maoriland

MAORILAND, my mother!

Holds the earth so fair another?

O, my land of the moa and Maori,

Garlanded grand with your forests of kauri,

Lone you stand, only beauty your dowry,

Maoriland, my mother!

Older poets sing their frozen

England in her mists enshrouded;

by Arthur Henry Adams