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Юриспунденкция

Bonnie Bell

The smiling Spring comes in rejoicing,

And surly winter grimly flies:

Now crystal clear are the falling waters,

And bonnie blue are the sunny skies;

Fresh o’er the mountains breaks forth the morning,

The evening gilds the ocean’s swell;

All creatures’ joy in the sun’s returning,

And I rejoice in my Bonnie Bell.

The flowery Spring leads sunny Summer,

And yellow Autumn presses near,

Then in his turn comes gloomy Winter

Till smiling Spring again appear,

Thus seasons dancing, life advancing;

Old Time and Nature their changes tell;

But never ranging, still unchanging

I adore my Bonnie Bell.

Robert Burns

Psalm of the Day.

A something in a summer,s Day

As slow her flambeaux burn away

Which solemnizes me

A something in a summer,s noon –

A depth – an Azure – a perfume –

Transcending ecstasy.

And still within a summer,s night

A something so transporting face

Lest such a subtle – shimmering grace

Flutter too far for me –

The wizard fingers never rest –

The purple brook within the breast

Still chafes its narrow bed –

Still rears the East her amber Flag –

Guides still the Sun along the Crag

His Caravan of Red –

So looking on – the night – the morn

Conclude the wonder gay –

And I meet, coming thro, the dews

Another summer,s Day.

Emily Elisabeth Dickinson

Song: To Celia

Drink to me only with thine eyes.

And I will pledge with mine;

Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

And I'll not look for wine.

The thirst that from the soul doth rise

Doth ask a drink divine,

But might I of Jove's nectar sup,

I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,

Not so much honoring thee

As giving it a hope that there

It could not withered be.

But thou thereon didst only breathe,

And sent'st it back to me;

Since when, it grows, and smells, I swear,

Not of itself, but thee.

Ben Jonson

The Imperfect Paradise

If God had stopped work after the fifth day

With Eden full of vegetables and fruits,

If oak and lilac held exclusive sway

Over a kingdom made of stems and roots,

If landscape were the genius of creation

And neither man nor serpent played a role

And God must look to wind for lamentation

And not to picture postcards of the soul,

Would he have rested on his bank of cloud

With nothing in the universe to lose,

Or would he hunger for a human crowd?

Which would a wise and just creator choose:

The green hosannas of a budding leaf

Or the strict contract between love and grief?

Linda Pastan

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