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¹«Áö°³ Rainbow Ãß¼öÇÏ´Â ¾Æ°¡¾¾ The Solitary Reaper
¼ö¼±È Daffodils ÃÊ¿øÀÇ ºû Splendor in The Grass »µ²Ù±â¿¡ ºÎÃÄ To The Cuckoo °¡¿©¿î ¼öÀÜÀÇ È¯»ó Susan
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Rainbow - William Wordsworth
My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it now I am a man, So be it a when I shall grow old, Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man: And I could wish my days to be
Bound each by natural piety
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ÇÏ¿°¾øÀÌ Àְųª, ½Ã¸§¿¡ Àá°Ü ³ª Ȧ·Î ÀÚ¸®¿¡ ´©¿ö ÀÖÀ» ¶§ ³» ¸¶À½¿¡ ±× ¸ð½À ¶°¿À¸£³ª´Ï, ÀÌ´Â ¹Ù·Î °íµ¶ÀÇ Ãູ ¾Æ´Ï·ª,
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Daffodils
- William wordsworth
I wonder'd lonelynas a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Contiuous stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretch'd in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saaw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed-and gazed- but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
»µ²Ù±â¿¡ ºÎÃÄ
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To The Cuckoo
- William Wordsworth
O Blithe New-comer! I have heard,
I hear thee and rejoice.
O Cuckoo! Shall I call thee Bird,
Or but a wandering Voice?
While I am lying on the grass
Thy twofold shout I hear,
From hill to hill it seems to pass,
At once far off, and near.
Though babbling only to the Vale,
Of Sunshine and of flowers,
Thou bringest unto me a tale
Of visionary hours.
Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!
Even yet thou art to me
No bird, but an invisible thing,
A voice, a mystery;
The same whom in my school-boy days
I listened to; that Cry
Which made me look a thousand ways
In bush, and tree, and sky.
To seek thee did I often rove
Through woods and on the green;
And thou wert still a hope, a love;
Still longed for, never seen.
And I can listen to thee yet;
Can lie upon the plain
And listen, till I do beget
That golden time again.
O blessed Bird! the earth we pace
Again appears to be
An unsubstantial, faery place;
That is fit home for Thee!
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The Solitary Reaper
- William wordsworth
BEHOLD her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.
No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings?--
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?
Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;--
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.
ÃÊ¿øÀÇ ºû
- Àª¸®¾Ï ¿öÁî¿öµå
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»ó»ó·Â¿¡ ÀÇÇØ ȯ»óÀ¸·Î ¹Ù²ï ÀΰøÀûÀÎ ÀÚ¿¬À̶ó°í ÇÑ´Ù.
Splendor in The Grass
- William Wordsworth
What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;
In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.
°¡¿©¿î ¼öÀÜÀÇ È¯»ó
- ¿ö¾îÁî¿öµå
¿ìµå°¡ ¸ðÅüÀÌ¿¡, ÇØ°¡ ¶°¿À¸¦ ¶§¸é ¸ñû µ¸¿ì¾î ¿ì´Â ÇÑ ¸¶¸® ƼƼ»õ, Áö³ 3³â µ¿¾È ÇѰᰰ¾Ò´Ù.
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¾çµ¿ÀÌ Çϳª µé°í ±×³à°¡ ÀÚÁÖ ¿À¸£³»·È´ø ±× °ñÂ¥±â,
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±×·¯³ª ±× ¸ðµÎ´Â »ç¶óÁø´Ù.
¾È°³µµ °¹°µµ ¾ð´öµµ ±×´Ãµµ, ½Ã³Á¹°Àº È帣·Á ÇÏÁö ¾Ê°í, ¾ð´öµµ ¼Ú¾Æ³ª·Á µéÁö ¾Ê´Â´Ù. ¿Â°® ¾Æ·ÕÁø ºûÀÌ ¸ðµÎ ´Ù ±×³àÀÇ ´«¿¡¼ »ç¶óÁ® ¹ö·È´Ù.
Susan
- William Wordsworth
At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears,
Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years:
Poor Susan has pass'd by the spot,and has heard
In the silence of morning the song of the bird.
Tis a note of enchantment;what ails her?
She sees
A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;
Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,
And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.
Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale
Down which she so often has tripp'd with her pail;
And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove;s,
The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.
She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but he fade,
The mist and the river, the hill and the shade;
The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,
And the colours have all pass'd away from her eyes!
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