Читать книгу An Epic of Women, and Other Poems - Arthur William Edgar O'Shaughnessy - Страница 8

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O IVORY bird, that shakest thy wan plumes,

And dost forget the sweetness of thy throat

For a most strange and melancholy note—

That wilt forsake the summer and the blooms

And go to winter in a place remote!

The country where thou goest, Ivory bird!

It hath no pleasant nesting-place for thee;

There are no skies nor flowers fair to see,

Nor any shade at noon—as I have heard—

But the black shadow of the Cypress tree.

Cypress tree, it groweth on a mound;

And sickly are the flowers it hath of May,

Full of a false and subtle spell are they;

For whoso breathes the scent of them around,

He shall not see the happy Summer day.

In June, it bringeth forth, O Ivory bird!

A winter berry, bitter as the sea;

And whoso eateth of it, woe is he—

He shall fall pale, and sleep—as I have heard—

Long in the shadow of the Cypress tree.