Читать книгу The House of the Trees & Other Poems - A. Ethelwyn Wetherald - Страница 2

THE sun within the leafy woods

Is like a midday moon,

So soft upon these solitudes

Is bent the face of noon.

Loosed from the outside summer blaze

A few gold arrows stray;

A vagrant brilliance droops or plays

Through all the dusky day.

The gray trunk feels a touch of light,

While, where dead leaves are deep,

A gleam of sunshine golden white

Lies like a soul asleep.

And just beyond dank-rooted ferns,

Where darkening hemlocks sigh

And leaves are dim, the bare road burns

Beneath a dazzling sky.