Robinson Jeffers: Всі вірші поета

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The Deer Lay Down Their Bones

I followed the narrow cliffside trail half way up the mountain

Above the deep river-canyon. There was a little cataract crossed the path,

flinging itself

Over tree roots and rocks, shaking the jeweled fern-fronds, bright bubbling

water

Pure from the mountain, but a bad smell came up. Wondering at it I clam-

bered down the steep stream

Some forty feet, and found in the midst of bush-oak and laurel,

by Robinson Jeffers

Shooting Season

IN THE NORTH OF SCOTLAND

The whole countryside deployed on the hills of heather, an army

with banners,

The beaters whoop the grouse to the butts.

Three gentlemen fling up their guns and the frightened covey is

a few wings fewer;

Then grooms approach with the panniered horses.

The gray old moorland silence has closed like water and covered

by Robinson Jeffers

Tor House

If you should look for this place after a handful

of lifetimes:

Perhaps of my planted forest a few

May stand yet, dark-leaved Australians or the coast

cypress, haggard

With storm-drift; but fire and the axe are devils.

Look for foundations of sea-worn granite, my fingers

had the art

by Robinson Jeffers

At The Birth Of An Age

The story is derived from the closing chapters of the Volsung

Saga, the action of which refers itself to a date fairly correspondent

with the end of the Greco-Roman age and the beginning of this one.

The theme of self-contradiction and self-frustration, in Gudrun's

nature, intends to express a characteristic quality of this

culture-age, which I think should be called the Christian age, for

it is conditioned by Christianity, and except a few centuries'

lag concurrent with it. Its civilization is the greatest, but also

Robinson Jeffers

Ascent To The Sierras

Beyond the great valley an odd instinctive rising

Begins to possess the ground, the flatness gathers

to little humps and

barrows, low aimless ridges,

A sudden violence of rock crowns them. The crowded

orchards end, they

have come to a stone knife;

The farms are finished; the sudden foot of the

by Robinson Jeffers

Shiva

There is a hawk that is picking the birds out of our sky,

She killed the pigeons of peace and security,

She has taken honesty and confidence from nations and men,

She is hunting the lonely heron of liberty.

She loads the arts with nonsense, she is very cunning

Science with dreams and the state with powers to catch them at last.

Nothing will escape her at last, flying nor running.

This is the hawk that picks out the star's eyes.

by Robinson Jeffers

Sign-Post

Civilized, crying: how to be human again; this will tell you how.

Turn outward, love things, not men, turn right away from humanity,

Let that doll lie. Consider if you like how the lilies grow,

Lean on the silent rock until you feel its divinity

Make your veins cold; look at the silent stars, let your eyes

Climb the great ladder out of the pit of yourself and man.

Things are so beautiful, your love will follow your eyes;

Things are the God; you will love God and not in vain,

by Robinson Jeffers

Fire On The Hills

The deer were bounding like blown leaves

Under the smoke in front the roaring wave of the brush-fire;

I thought of the smaller lives that were caught.

Beauty is not always lovely; the fire was beautiful, the terror

Of the deer was beautiful; and when I returned

Down the back slopes after the fire had gone by, an eagle

Was perched on the jag of a burnt pine,

Insolent and gorged, cloaked in the folded storms of his shoulders

by Robinson Jeffers

The Excesses Of God

Is it not by his high superfluousness we know

Our God? For to be equal a need

Is natural, animal, mineral: but to fling

Rainbows over the rain

And beauty above the moon, and secret rainbows

On the domes of deep sea-shells,

And make the necessary embrace of breeding

Beautiful also as fire,

by Robinson Jeffers

Birth-Dues

Joy is a trick in the air; pleasure is merely

contemptible, the dangled

Carrot the ass follows to market or precipice;

But limitary pain — the rock under the tower

and the hewn coping

That takes thunder at the head of the turret-

Terrible and real. Therefore a mindless dervish

carving himself

by Robinson Jeffers

Ave Caesar

No bitterness: our ancestors did it.

They were only ignorant and hopeful, they wanted freedom but wealth too.

Their children will learn to hope for a Caesar.

Or rather—for we are not aquiline Romans but soft mixed colonists—

Some kindly Sicilian tyrant who'll keep

Poverty and Carthage off until the Romans arrive,

We are easy to manage, a gregarious people,

Full of sentiment, clever at mechanics, and we love our luxuries.

by Robinson Jeffers

The Bird With The Dark Plumes

The bird with the dark plumes in my blood,

That never for one moment however I patched my truces

Consented to make peace with the people,

It is pitiful now to watch her pleasure In a breath of

tempest

Breaking the sad promise of spring.

Are these that morose hawk's wings, vaulting, a mere

mad swallow's,

by Robinson Jeffers