Читать книгу The Garden of Dreams - Cawein Madison Julius - Страница 25

The flute, whence Autumn's misty finger-tips

Drew music – ripening the pinched kernels in

The burly chestnut and the chinquapin,

Red-rounding-out the oval haws and hips, —

Now Winter crushes to his stormy lips

And surly songs whistle around his chin:

Now the wild days and wilder nights begin

When, at the eaves, the crooked icicle drips.

Thy songs, O Autumn, are not lost so soon!

Still dwells a memory in thy hollow flute,

Which, unto Winter's masculine airs, doth give

Thy own creative qualities of tune,

By which we see each bough bend white with fruit,

Each bush with bloom, in snow commemorative.