Over Sir John's Hill-Dylan Thomas

歌手 : Dylan Thomas

专辑 : In Country Heaven - The Evolution of a Poem

语种 : 英语

时长 : 04:24

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TXT Over Sir John's Hill-Dylan Thomas 文本歌词

Over Sir John's Hill (Live) - Dylan Thomas

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

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 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