Читать книгу Among the Millet and Other Poems - Archibald Lampman - Страница 12

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In those mute days when spring was in her glee,

And hope was strong, we knew not why or how,

And earth, the mother, dreamed with brooding brow.

Musing on life, and what the hours might be,

When love should ripen to maternity,

Then like high flutes in silvery interchange

Ye piped with voices still and sweet and strange,

And ever as ye piped, on every tree

The great buds swelled; among the pensive woods

The spirits of first flowers awoke and flung

From buried faces the close fitting hoods,

And listened to your piping till they fell,

The frail spring-beauty with her perfumed bell,

The wind-flower, and the spotted adder-tongue.