Читать книгу Among the Millet and Other Poems - Archibald Lampman - Страница 11

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Breathers of wisdom won without a quest,

Quaint uncouth dreamers, voices high and strange,

Flutists of lands where beauty hath no change,

And wintery grief is a forgotten guest,

Sweet murmurers of everlasting rest,

For whom glad days have ever yet to run,

And moments are as æons, and the sun

But ever sunken half-way toward the west.

Often to me who heard you in your day,

With close wrapt ears, it could not choose but seem

That earth, our mother, searching in what way,

Men's hearts might know her spirit's inmost dream,

Ever at rest beneath life's change and stir,

Made you her soul, and bade you pipe for her.