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Blown out of the prairie in twilight and dew,

Half bold and half timid, yet lazy all through;

Loath ever to leave, and yet fearful to stay,

He limps in the clearing, an outcast in gray.


A shade on the stubble, a ghost by the wall,

Now leaping, now limping, now risking a fall,

Lop-eared and large-jointed, but ever alway

A thoroughly vagabond outcast in gray.


Here, Carlo, old fellow,--he`s one of your kind,--

Go, seek him, and bring him in out of the wind.

What! snarling, my Carlo! So even dogs may

Deny their own kin in the outcast in gray.


Well, take what you will,--though it be on the sly,

Marauding or begging,--I shall not ask why,

But will call it a dole, just to help on his way

A four-footed friar in orders of gray!

Брет Харте | Просмотров: 313 | Дата: 2009-08-25 | Комментарии (0)

"The sky is clouded, the rocks are bare,

The spray of the tempest is white in air;

The winds are out with the waves at play,

And I shall not tempt the sea to-day.


"The trail is narrow, the wood is dim,

The panther clings to the arching limb;

And the lion`s whelps are abroad at play,

And I shall not join in the chase to-day."


But the ship sailed safely over the sea,

And the hunters came from the chase in glee;

And the town that was builded upon a rock

Was swallowed up in the earthquake shock

Брет Харте | Просмотров: 313 | Дата: 2009-08-25 | Комментарии (0)

By scattered rocks and turbid waters shifting,

By furrowed glade and dell,

To feverish men thy calm, sweet face uplifting,

Thou stayest them to tell

The delicate thought that cannot find expression,

For ruder speech too fair,

That, like thy petals, trembles in possession,

And scatters on the air.


The miner pauses in his rugged labor,

And, leaning on his spade,

Laughingly calls unto his comrade-neighbor

To see thy charms displayed.

But in his eyes a mist unwonted rises,

And for a moment clear

Some sweet home face his foolish thought surprises,

And passes in a tear,--


Some boyish vision of his Eastern village,

Of uneventful toil,

Where golden harvests followed quiet tillage

Above a peaceful soil.

One moment only; for the pick, uplifting,

Through root and fibre cleaves,

And on the muddy current slowly drifting

Are swept by bruised leaves.


And yet, O poet, in thy homely fashion,

Thy work thou dost fulfill,

For on the turbid current of his passion

Thy face is shining still!

Брет Харте | Просмотров: 344 | Дата: 2009-08-25 | Комментарии (0)

As I stand by the cross on the lone mountain`s crest,

Looking over the ultimate sea,

In the gloom of the mountain a ship lies at rest,

And one sails away from the lea:

One spreads its white wings on a far-reaching track,

With pennant and sheet flowing free;

One hides in the shadow with sails laid aback,--

The ship that is waiting for me!


But lo! in the distance the clouds break away,

The Gate`s glowing portals I see;

And I hear from the outgoing ship in the bay

The song of the sailors in glee.

So I think of the luminous footprints that bore

The comfort o`er dark Galilee,

And wait for the signal to go to the shore,

To the ship that is waiting for me.
Брет Харте | Просмотров: 337 | Дата: 2009-08-25 | Комментарии (0)

Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting,

The river sang below;

The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting

Their minarets of snow.


The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, painted

The ruddy tints of health

On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted

In the fierce race for wealth;


Till one arose, and from his pack`s scant treasure

A hoarded volume drew,

And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure

To hear the tale anew.


And then, while round them shadows gathered faster,

And as the firelight fell,

He read aloud the book wherein the Master

Had writ of "Little Nell."


Perhaps `twas boyish fancy,--for the reader

Was youngest of them all,--

But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar

A silence seemed to fall;


The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows,

Listened in every spray,

While the whole camp with "Nell" on English meadows

Wandered and lost their way.


And so in mountain solitudes--o`ertaken

As by some spell divine--

Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken

From out the gusty pine.


Lost is that camp and wasted all its fire;

And he who wrought that spell?

Ah! towering pine and stately Kentish spire,

Ye have one tale to tell!


Lost is that camp, but let its fragrant story

Blend with the breath that thrills

With hop-vine`s incense all the pensive glory

That fills the Kentish hills.


And on that grave where English oak and holly

And laurel wreaths entwine,

Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly,

This spray of Western pine!

Брет Харте | Просмотров: 304 | Дата: 2009-08-25 | Комментарии (0)

Know I not whom thou mayst be

Carved upon this olive-tree,--

"Manuela of La Torre,"--

For around on broken walls

Summer sun and spring rain falls,

And in vain the low wind calls

"Manuela of La Torre."

Of that song no words remain

But the musical refrain,--

"Manuela of La Torre."


Yet at night, when winds are still,

Tinkles on the distant hill

A guitar, and words that thrill

Tell to me the old, old story,--

Old when first thy charms were sung,

Old when these old walls were young,

"Manuela of La Torre."

Брет Харте | Просмотров: 312 | Дата: 2009-08-25 | Комментарии (0)


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