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Dylan Thomas
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Over Sir John's Hill
Over Sir John's hill, The hawk on fire hangs still; In a hoisted cloud, at drop of dusk, he pulls to his Claws And gallows, up the rays of his eyes the small birds of The bay And the shrill child's play Wars Of the sparrows and such who swansing, dusk, in Wrangling hedges. And blithely they squawk To fiery tyburn over the wrestle of elms until The flash the noosed hawk Crashes, and slowly the fishing holy stalking heron In the river Towy below bows his tilted headstone.
Flash, and the plumes crack, And a black cap of jack- Daws Sir John's just hill dons, and again the gulled Birds hare To the hawk on fire, the halter height, over Towy's Fins, In a whack of wind. There Where the elegiac fisherbird stabs and paddles In the pebbly dab-filled Shallow and sedge, and 'dilly dilly, ' calls the loft Hawk, 'Come and be killed, ' I open the leaves of the water at a passage Of psalms and shadows among the pincered sandcrabs Prancing
And read, in a shell Death clear as a bouy's bell: All praise of the hawk on fire in hawk-eyed dusk be Sung, When his viperish fuse hangs looped with flames under The brand Wing, and blest shall Young Green chickens of the bay and bushes cluck, 'dilly Dilly, 更多更详尽歌词 在 ※ Mojim.com 魔镜歌词网 Come let us die.' We grieve as the blithe birds, never again, leave Shingle and elm, The heron and I, I young Aesop fabling to the near night by the dingle Of eels, saint heron hymning in the shell-hung distant
Crystal harbour vale Where the sea cobbles sail, And wharves of water where the walls dance and the White cranes stilt. It is the heron and I, under judging Sir John's elmed Hill, tell-tale the knelled Guilt Of the led-astray birds whom God, for their breast of Whistles, Have Mercy on, God in his whirlwind silence save, who marks the Sparrows hail, For their souls' song. Now the heron grieves in the weeded verge. Through Windows Of dusk and water I see the tilting whispering
Heron, mirrored, go, As the snapt feathers snow, Fishing in the tear of the Towy. Only a hoot owl Hollows, a grassblade blown in cupped hands, in the Looted elms And no green cocks or hens Shout Now on Sir John's hill. The heron, ankling the scaly Lowlands of the waves, Makes all the music; and I who hear the tune of the Slow, Wear-willow river, grave, Before the lunge of the night, the notes on this time- Shaken Stone for the sake of the souls of the slain birds Sailing.
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