"twfst10" - читать интересную книгу автора (Follen Eliza Lee)

It is the evening before the first of May, and the boys are looking
forward to a May-day festival with the children in the neighborhood.
Mrs. Chilton read aloud these beautiful lines of Milton:--

Now the bright morning star, Day's harbinger,
Comes dancing from the east, and loads with her
The flowery May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose.
Hail beauteous May that dost inspire
Mirth, and youth, and warm desire;
Woods and groves arc of thy dressing,
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early song,
And welcome thee, and with thee long.

"How beautiful!" said Frank and Harry. "Suppose, Mother," said
Harry, "it should rain, and hail, and snow to-morrow, for it looks
like it now, and then you know we cannot go into the woods and
gather flowers; and all our plans will be spoiled." "Why, then, my
dear, we must enjoy May morning as the great poet did, after he lost
his sight, with our mind's eye; and you must bear your
disappointment patiently." "Easier said than done, Mother," said
Harry. "Why, only think of all our preparations, and the beautiful
wreath you made for Lizzy Evans, who is to be queen of the May, and
how pretty she would look in it, and then think of the dinner in the
woods, we all sitting round in a circle, and she and the king of the
May in the midst of us, and Ned Brown playing on his flageolet; and
then you know we are all to walk home in procession, and have a
dance at his mother's after tea." "You will not lose your dance,
Harry," said his mother, "if it should hail, and rain, and snow;
but, on the contrary, enjoy it all the more, for then you will riot
be fatigued by a long walk; and Lizzy can wear the wreath at any
rate." "I don't care for the fatigue, Mother; I want to be in the
woods and gather the flowers with my own hands, and smell them as I
gather them in the fresh air, and hear the birds sing; and to scream
as loud as I please, and kick up my heels, and not hear any one say,
'Don't make such a noise, Harry.' I guess Milton did not take as
much pleasure in writing poetry about the spring after he became
blind. But please read his May Song again, Mother." She read it
again.

"I think he must have felt as glad when he wrote it," said Harry,
"as I hope to feel tomorrow.--'Comes dancing from the east'--how
beautiful it is! What a pity he ever lost his sight!" "Milton," said
the mother, "made such a good use of his eyes while he could see,
that he laid up stores of beautiful images, which he remembered when
he could no longer use his bodily eyes. The poetry he wrote when he
was blind shows the most accurate observation of the outward
appearances of things, of shades of color, and of all those beauties