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第11章

a dome of many-coloured glass(多彩玻璃顶)-第11章

小说: a dome of many-coloured glass(多彩玻璃顶) 字数: 每页4000字

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so    dear!   The   backs    of  tarnished    gold;   the  faded    boards;   The    slightly 

yellowing page; the strange old type; All speak the fashion of another age; 

The thoughts peculiar to the man who wrote Arrayed in garb peculiar to 

the   time; As   though   the   idiom   of   a   man   were   caught   Imprisoned   in   the 

idiom of a race。 A nothing truly; yet a link that binds All ages to their own 

inheritance; And   stretching   backward;   dim   and   dimmer   still;   Is   lost   in   a 

remote antiquity。 Grapes do not come of thorns nor figs of thistles; And 

even a great poet's divinest thought Is coloured by the world he knows and 

sees。 The little intimate things of every day; The trivial nothings that we 

think not of; These go to make a part of each man's life; As much a part as 

do the larger thoughts He takes account of。              Nay; the little things Of daily 

life it is which mold; and shape; And make him apt for noble deeds and 

true。 And as we read some much…loved masterpiece; Read it as long ago 

the author read; With eyes that brimmed with tears as he saw The message 



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he believed in stamped in type Inviolable for the slow…coming years; We 

know a certain subtle sympathy; We seem to clasp his hand across the past; 

His words become related to the time; He is at one with his own glorious 

creed And all that in his world was dared and done。 The long; still; fruitful 

hours     slip   away     Shedding      their   influences     as  they    pass;   We     know 

ourselves   the   richer   to   have   sat   Upon   this   dusty   floor   and   dreamed   our 

dreams。   No   other   place   to   us   were   quite   the   same;   No   other   dreams   so 

potent   in   their   charm;   For   this   is   ours! Every   twist   and   turn   Of   every 

narrow stair is known and loved; Each nook and cranny is our very own; 

The   dear;    old;   sleepy   place    is  full  of  spells   For   us;  by   right   of  long 

inheritance。 The building simply bodies forth a thought Peculiarly inherent 

to the race。 And we; descendants of that elder time; Have learnt to love the 

very form in which The thought has been embodied to our years。 And here 

we feel that we are not alone; We too are one with our own richest past; 

And here that veiled; but ever smouldering fire Of race; which rarely seen 

yet   never dies;  Springs up   afresh   and   warms   us   with   its heat。 And   must 

they take away this treasure house; To us so full of thoughts and memories; 

To   all   the   world   beside   a   dismal   place   Lacking   in   all   this   modern   age 

requires To tempt along the unfamiliar paths And leafy lanes of old time 

literatures?   It   takes   some   time   for   moss   and   vines   to   grow And   warmly 

cover gaunt and chill stone walls Of stately buildings from the cold North 

Wind。   The   lichen   of   affection   takes   as   long;   Or   longer;   ere   it   lovingly 

enfolds A  place   which   since   without   it   were   bereft; All   stript   and   bare; 

shorn     of  its  chiefest    grace。   For   what    to   us  were    halls   and   corridors 

However large and fitting; if we part With this which is our birthright; if 

we lose A sentiment profound; unsoundable; Which Time's slow ripening 

alone can make; And man's blind foolishness so quickly mar。 



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                       Verses for Children 



                                     Sea Shell 



    Sea Shell; Sea Shell;      Sing me a song; O Please! A song of ships; and 

sailor men;    And parrots; and tropical trees; 

    Of islands lost in the Spanish Main Which no man ever may find again; 

Of fishes and corals under the waves; And seahorses stabled in great green 

caves。 

    Sea Shell; Sea Shell; Sing of the things you know so well。 



                               Fringed Gentians 



    Near where I live there is a lake As blue as blue can be; winds make It 

dance as they go blowing by。 I think it curtseys to the sky。 

    It's just a lake of lovely flowers And my Mamma says they are ours; 

But they are not like those we grow To be our very own; you know。 

    We   have   a   splendid   garden;   there   Are   lots   of   flowers   everywhere; 

Roses; and pinks; and four o'clocks And hollyhocks; and evening stocks。 

    Mamma lets us pick them; but never Must we pick any gentians  ever! 

For if we carried them away They'd die of homesickness that day。 



                             The Painted Ceiling 



    My     Grandpapa     lives  in  a  wonderful    house    With    a  great  many 



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windows and doors; There are stairs that go up; and stairs that go down; 

And such beautiful; slippery floors。 

     But of all of the rooms; even mother's and mine;               And the bookroom; 

and    parlour    and   all;  I  like  the  green    dining…room      so  much     the  best 

Because of its ceiling and wall。 

     Right over your head is a  funny round hole                With apples and   pears 

falling through; There's a big bunch of grapes all purply and sweet;                   And 

melons and pineapples too。 

     They  tumble   and tumble;  but   never come   down             Though   I've   stood 

underneath   a   long   while   With   my   mouth   open   wide;   for   I   always   have 

hoped      Just a cherry would drop from the pile。 

     No matter how early I run there to look              It has always begun to fall 

through; And one night when at bedtime I crept in to see;                  It was falling 

by candle…light too。 

     I   am   sure   they   are   magical   fruits;   and   each   one Makes   you   hear 

things;   or   see   things;   or   go   Forever   invisible;   but   it's   no   use; And   of 

course I shall just never know。 

     For the ladder's too heavy to lift; and the chairs           Are not nearly so tall 

as   I   need。   I've   given   up   hope;   and   I   feel   I   shall   die Without   having 

accomplished the deed。 

     It's   a   little   bit   sad;   when   you   seem   very   near To   adventures   and 

things of that sort; Which nearly begin; and then don't; and you know                     It 

is only because you are short。 



                                The Crescent Moon 



     Slipping softly through the sky           Little horned; happy moon; Can you 

hear me up so high?         Will you come down soon? 

     On   my   nursery   window…sill       Will   you   stay   your   steady   flight? And 

then float away with me          Through the summer night? 

     Brushing      over   tops   of  trees;   Playing      hide   and   seek   with   stars; 

Peeping up through shiny clouds            At Jupiter or Mars。 

     I shall fill my lap with roses        Gathered in the milky way; All to carry 



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home to mother。       Oh! what will she say! 

     Little rocking; sailing moon;        Do you hear me shout  Ahoy! Just a 

little nearer; moon;      To please a little boy。 



                                       Climbing 



     High up in the apple tree climbing I go; With the sky above me; the 

earth below。 Each branch is the step of a wonderful stair Which leads to 

the town I see shining up there。 

     Climbing; climbing; higher and higher; The branches blow and I see a 

spire; The gleam of a turret; the glint of a dome; All sparkling and bright; 

like white sea foam。 

     On and on; from b

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