Cuộc hành hương của chàng hiệp sĩ Childe Harolds - Khúc thứ ba (03) Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage - Canto III (03)

Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage - Canto III (03)

In my youth’s summer I did sing of One,
The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind;
Again I seize the theme, then but begun,
And bear it with me, as the rushing wind
Bears the cloud onwards: in that tale I find
The furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears,
Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track behind,
O’er which all heavily the journeying years
Plod the last sands of life—where not a flower appears.