28.10.2007, 13:47
THE ROBIN'S OCTOBER SONG.
THAT carol to the cold and misty morn,
That ending autumn-song, that short-lived song,
O robin ! I know well, so sharp and strong,
As do those trembling groves already shorn
And yellowing. O brief sweet song ! so lorn
Of gladness ; all these leaves, from twig to stem,
Tremble as if dead fingers counted them :
To sing such song men too were surely born.
And this it is : the most desired of Gods
Is waxen weak, and all his children too,
Even the sun ; that wide-winged spectre flew
Faster, and now hath caught him by the hair.
Let us contend no more against the rods,
But sing our last song, and descend the stair.
THAT carol to the cold and misty morn,
That ending autumn-song, that short-lived song,
O robin ! I know well, so sharp and strong,
As do those trembling groves already shorn
And yellowing. O brief sweet song ! so lorn
Of gladness ; all these leaves, from twig to stem,
Tremble as if dead fingers counted them :
To sing such song men too were surely born.
And this it is : the most desired of Gods
Is waxen weak, and all his children too,
Even the sun ; that wide-winged spectre flew
Faster, and now hath caught him by the hair.
Let us contend no more against the rods,
But sing our last song, and descend the stair.