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The Herons of Elmwood - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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The Herons of Elmwood Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

На этой странице вы найдете полный текст песни "The Herons of Elmwood" от Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Lyrxo предлагает вам самый полный и точный текст этой композиции без лишних отвлекающих факторов. Узнайте все куплеты и припев, чтобы лучше понять любимую песню и насладиться ею в полной мере. Идеально для фанатов и всех, кто ценит качественную музыку.
The Herons of Elmwood - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Warm and still is the summer night,
       &nbsp As here by the river's brink I wander;
White overhead are the stars, and white
       &nbsp The glimmering lamps on the hillside yonder.

Silent are all the sounds of day;
       &nbsp Nothing I hear but the chirp of crickets,
And the cry of the herons winging their way
       &nbsp O'er the poet's house in the Elmwood thickets.

Call to him, herons, as slowly you pass
       &nbsp To your roosts in the haunts of the exiled thrushes,
Sing him the song of the green morass;
       &nbsp And the tides that water the reeds and rushes.

Sing him the mystical Song of the Hern,
       &nbsp And the secret that baffles our utmost seeking;
For only a sound of lament we discern,
       &nbsp And cannot interpret the words you are speaking.

Sing of the air, and the wild delight
       &nbsp Of wings that uplift and winds that uphold you,
The joy of freedom, the rapture of flight
       &nbsp Through the drift of the floating mists that infold you.

Of the landscape lying so far below,
       &nbsp With its towns and rivers and desert places;
And the splendor of light above, and the glow
       &nbsp Of the limitless, blue, ethereal spaces.
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