๋จ๋ฝ์ ํด๋ฆญํ๋ฉด ์ดํยท๋ฌธ๋ฒ ํด์ค์ด ์ค๋ฅธ์ชฝ์ ํ์๋ฉ๋๋ค.
I It is not winter yet, but that sweet time
In autumn when the first cool days are past;
A week ago, the leaves were hoar with rime,
And some have dropped before the North wind's blast;
But the mild hours are back, and at mid-noon,
The day hath all the genial warmth of June.
ํด์ค ๋ณด๊ธฐ โII What slender form lies stretched along the mound? Can it be his, the Wanderer's, with that brow
Gray in its prime, those eyes that wander round
Listlessly, with a jaded glance that now
Seems to see nothing where it rests, and then
Pores on each trivial object in its ken?
ํด์ค ๋ณด๊ธฐ โIII See how a gentle maid's wan fingers clasp
The last fond love-notes of some faithless hand;
Thus, with a transient interest, his weak grasp
Holds a few leaves as when of old he scanned
The meaning in their gold and crimson streaks;
But the sweet dream has vanished! hush! he speaks!
ํด์ค ๋ณด๊ธฐ โIV "Once more, once more, after long pain and toil,
And yet not long, if I should count by years,
I breathe my native air, and tread the soil
I trod in childhood; if I shed no tears,
No happy tears, 't is that their fount is dry,
And joy that cannot weep must sigh, must sigh.
ํด์ค ๋ณด๊ธฐ โV "These leaves, my boyish books in days of yore,
When, as the weeks sped by, I seemed to stand
Ever upon the brink of some wild lore--
These leaves shall make my bed, and--for the hand
Of God is on me, chilling brain and breath--
I shall not ask a softer couch in death.
ํด์ค ๋ณด๊ธฐ โVI "Here was it that I saw, or dreamed I saw,
I know not which, that shape of love and light. Spirit of Song! have I not owned thy law? Have I not taught, or striven to teach the right,
And kept my heart as clean, my life as sweet,
As mortals may, when mortals mortals meet?
ํด์ค ๋ณด๊ธฐ โVII "Thou know'st how I went forth, my youthful breast
On fire with thee, amid the paths of men;
Once in my wanderings, my lone footsteps pressed
A mountain forest; in a sombre glen,
Down which its thundrous boom a cataract flung,
A little bird, unheeded, built and sung.
ํด์ค ๋ณด๊ธฐ โVIII "So fell my voice amid the whirl and rush
Of human passions; if unto my art
Sorrow hath sometimes owed a gentler gush,
I know it not; if any Poet-heart
Hath kindled at my songs its light divine,
I know it not; no ray came back to mine.
ํด์ค ๋ณด๊ธฐ โ