The tide is full， the moon lies fair Upon the straits; on the French coast，
the light Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand， Glimmering and vast，
out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window， sweet is the night-air! Only， from the long line of
spray Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land， Listen! you hear the grating
roar Of pebbles which the waves draw back， and fling， At their return， up the
high strand， Begin， and cease， and then again begin， With tremulous cadence
slow， and bring The eternal note of sadness in.
Sophocles long ago Heard it on the Aegean， and it brought Into his mind the
turbid ebb and flow Of human misery; we Find also in the sound a
thought， Hearing it by this distant northern sea.
The Sea of Faith Was once， too， at the full， and round earth's shore Lay
like the folds of a bright girdle furled. But now I only hear Its melancholy，
long， withdrawing roar， Retreating， to the breath Of the night-wind， down the
vast edges drear And naked shingles of the world.
Ah， love， let us be true To one another! for the world， which seems To lie
before us like a land of dreams， So various， so beautiful， so new， Hath really
neither joy， nor love， nor light， Nor certitude， nor peace， nor help for
pain; And we are here as on a darkling plain Swept with confused alarms of
struggle and flight， Where ignorant armies clash by night.
发表于 2016-7-10 11:41:12