Читать книгу The Triumph of Music, and Other Lyrics - Cawein Madison Julius - Страница 19

For him God's birds each merry morn

Make of wild throats melodious flutes

To trill such love from brush and thorn

As might brim eyes of brutes:

Who would believe of such a thing,

That 'tis her heart which makes them sing?

For him the faultless skies of noon

Grow farther in eternal blue,

As heavens that buoy the balanced moon,

And sow the stars and dew:

Who would believe that such deep skies

Are miracles only through her eyes?

For him mad sylphs adown domed nights

Stud golden globules radiant,

Or glass-green transient trails of lights

Spin from their orbs and slant:

Who would believe a soul were hers

To make for him a universe?