Читать книгу The House of the Trees & Other Poems - A. Ethelwyn Wetherald - Страница 11

I WANDERED down the woodside way,

Where branching doors ope with the breeze,

And saw a little child at play

Among the strong and lovely trees;

The dead leaves rustled to her knees;

Her hair and eyes were brown as they.

“Oh, little child,” I softly said,

“You come a long, long way to me;

The trees that tower overhead

Are here in sweet reality,

But you’re the child I used to be,

And all the leaves of May you tread.”