رؤى بني مصطفى

Love the cracks on the walls Of your apartment, and the electric light The current of electricity passed Through the hand on the switch, love the hand

,The squall sweeps gray-winged across the obliterated hills ;And the startled lake seems to run before it ,From the wood comes a clamor of leaves ,Tugging at the twigs

The present reigned supreme Like the shallow floods over the gutters ,Over the raw paths where we had been .The house with the shutters

The fat cat on the mat may seem to dream of nice mice that suffice ;for him, or cream

,All that is gold does not glitter“ ;Not all those who wander are lost ,The old that is strong does not wither .Deep roots are not reached by the frost

The clothes-line is a Rosary ;Of household help and care Each little saint the Mother loves .Is represented there

My old man’s a white old man .And my old mother’s black If ever I cursed my white old man .I take my curses back

Hold fast to dreams For if dreams die

The bus sweeps past the swinging trees And the road unwinds long and cold The chassis creaks with the load .And jolts to a halt by the road

In western lands beneath the Sun ,the flowers may rise in Spring ,the trees may bud, the waters run .the merry finches sing

There sat down, once, a thing on Henry's heart só heavy, if he had a hundred years more, & weeping, sleepless, in all them time& .Henry could not make good

I really thought that drinking here would Start a new chain, that the soft storms Would abate, and the horror stories, the ,Noises men make to frighten themselves

The soldiers came .and dropped their bombs The soldiers didn’t take long .to bring the forest down

–It sifts from Leaden Sieves  .It powders all the Wood It fills with Alabaster Wool –The Wrinkles of the Road 

:A bird came down the walk ;He did not know I saw He bit an angle-worm in halves .And ate the fellow, raw

I years had been from Home And now before the Door I dared not enter, lest a Face I never saw before

I measure every Grief I meet –With narrow, probing, eyes  –I wonder if It weighs like Mine  .Or has an Easier size

How happy is the little stone ,That rambles in the road alone ,And doesn’t care about careers ;And exigencies never fears

I died for beauty, but was scarce ,Adjusted in the tomb When one who died for truth was lain .In an adjoining room

Apparently with no surprise To any happy Flower –The Frost beheads it at it’s play –In accidental power

,A drop fell on the apple tree ;Another on the roof ,A half a dozen kissed the eaves .And made the gables laugh

‘But look at all this beauty’ said the hotel manager’s wife when asked how she could bear to ,live there. True: there was a fine bay

—The Wind — tapped like a tired Man ”And like a Host — “Come in I boldly answered — entered then My Residence within

The Bustle in a House The Morning after Death Is solemnest of industries –Enacted opon Earth

–To fight aloud, is very brave  But gallanter, I know Who charge within the bosom –The Cavalry of Woe

,There’s been a Death, in the Opposite House —As lately as Today  I know it, by the numb look —Such Houses have — alway 

–I dwell in Possibility  –A fairer House than Prose  –More numerous of Windows  –Superior – for Doors 

,The night is darkening round me ;The wild winds coldly blow But a tyrant spell has bound me .And I cannot, cannot go

Often rebuked, yet always back returning ,To those first feelings that were born with me And leaving busy chase of wealth and learning :For idle dreams of things which cannot be

هي قصيدة بقلم الشاعرة إميلي برونتي، تقدم القصيدة وصف حالة المتحدث العاطفية والروحية، تابع المزيد من القراءة لتتعرف على شرح القصيدة.   ملخص قصيدة At Castle Wood   إميلي برونتي كانت شاعرة مشهورة على نطاق واسع منذ أن بدأت في كتابة الشعر، مساهماتها في الأدب الإنجليزي مشهورة، عاشت حياة صعبة للغاية وكانت مليئة بالمآسي والمصاعب […]