Читать книгу The House of the Trees & Other Poems - A. Ethelwyn Wetherald - Страница 7

WITH slender arms outstretching in the sun

The grass lies dead;

The wind walks tenderly, and stirs not one

Frail, fallen head.

Of baby creepings through the April day

Where streamlets wend,

Of childlike dancing on the breeze of May,

This is the end.

No more these tiny forms are bathed in dew,

No more they reach,

To hold with leaves that shade them from the blue

A whispered speech.

No more they part their arms, and wreathe them close

Again to shield

Some love-full little nest—a dainty house

Hid in a field.

For them no more the splendor of the storm,

The fair delights

Of moon and star-shine, glimmering faint and warm

On summer nights.

Their little lives they yield in summer death,

And frequently

Across the field bereaved their dying breath

Is brought to me.