James Russell Lowell: Всі вірші поета

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The Shepherd Of King Admetus

There came a youth upon the earth,

Some thousand years ago,

Whose slender hands were nothing worth,

Whether to plow, to reap, or sow.

Upon an empty tortoise-shell

He stretched some chords, and drew

Music that made men's bosoms swell

Fearless, or brimmed their eyes with dew.

by James Russell Lowell

What Mr Robinson Thinks

Guvener B. is a sensible man;

He stays to his home an' looks arter his folks;

He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can,

An' into nobody's tater-patch pokes;—

But John P.

Robinson he

Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B.

My! aint it terrible? Wut shall we du?

by James Russell Lowell

Love

True Love is but a humble, low-born thing,

And hath its food served up in earthen ware;

It is a thing to walk with, hand in hand,

Through the everydayness of this workday world,

Baring its tender feet to every flint,

Yet letting not one heart-beat go astray

From Beauty's law of plainness and content;

A simple, fireside thing, whose quiet smile

by James Russell Lowell

Jeffries Wyman Died September 4, 1874

The wisest man could ask no more of Fate

Than to be simple, modest, manly, true,

Safe from the Many, honoured by the Few;

To count as naught in World, or Church, or State,

But inwardly in secret to be great;

To feel mysterious Nature ever new;

To touch, if not to grasp, her endless clue,

And learn by each discovery how to wait.

by James Russell Lowell

Winter Evening Hymn To My Fire

Nicotia, dearer to the Muse

Than all the grape's bewildering juice,

We worship, unforbid of thee;

And as her incense floats and curls

In airy spires and wayward whirls,

Or poises on its tremulous stalk

A flower of frailest reverie,

So winds and loiters, idly free,

by James Russell Lowell

A Parable

Worn and footsore was the Prophet,

When he gained the holy hill;

'God has left the earth,' he murmured,

'Here his presence lingers still.

'God of all the olden prophets,

Wilt thou speak with men no more?

Have I not as truly served thee

As thy chosen ones of yore?

by James Russell Lowell

A Legend Of Brittany - Part First

Fair as a summer dream was Margaret,

Such dream as in a poet's soul might start,

Musing of old loves while the moon doth set:

Her hair was not more sunny than her heart,

Though like a natural golden coronet

It circled her dear head with careless art,

Mocking the sunshine, that would fain have lent

by James Russell Lowell

Without And Withiin

My coachman, in the moonlight there,

Looks through the sidelight of the door;

I hear him with his brethren swear,

As I could do—but only more.

Flattening his nose against the pane,

He envies me my brilliant lot,

Breathes on his aching fist in vain,

And dooms me to a place more hot.

by James Russell Lowell

Sunthin' In The Pastoral Line

Once git a smell o' musk into a draw,

An' it clings hold like precerdents in law;

Your gra'ma'am put it there,—when, goodness knows,—

To jes this—worldify her Sunday-clo'es;

But the old chist wun't sarve her gran'son's wife,

(For, 'thout new funnitoor, wut good in life?)

An' so ole clawfoot, from the precinks dread

O' the spare chamber, slinks into the shed,

by James Russell Lowell

A Legend Of Brittany - Part Second

As one who, from the sunshine and the green,

Enters the solid darkness of a cave,

Nor knows what precipice or pit unseen

May yawn before him with its sudden grave,

And, with hushed breath, doth often forward lean,

Dreaming he hears the plashing of a wave

Dimly below, or feels a damper air

by James Russell Lowell

A Chippewa Legend

The old Chief, feeling now wellnigh his end,

Called his two eldest children to his side,

And gave them, in few words, his parting charge!

'My son and daughter, me ye see no more;

The happy hunting-grounds await me, green

With change of spring and summer through the year:

But, for remembrance, after I am gone,

Be kind to little Sheemah for my sake:

by James Russell Lowell

The Candidate's Creed

I du believe in Freedom's cause,

Ez fur away ez Paris is;

I love to see her stick her claws

In them infarnal Pharisees;

It's wal enough agin a king

To dror resolves and triggers,—

But libbaty's a kind o' thing

Thet don't agree with niggers.

by James Russell Lowell