Читать книгу The House of the Trees & Other Poems - A. Ethelwyn Wetherald - Страница 21

AGAINST my window-pane

He plunges at a mass

Of buds—and strikes in vain

The intervening glass.

O sprite of wings and fire

Outstretching eagerly,

My soul with like desire

To probe thy mystery,

Comes close as breast to bloom,

As bud to hot heart-beat,

And gains no inner room,

And drains no hidden sweet.