Читать книгу The Garden of Dreams - Cawein Madison Julius - Страница 9

Not till the wildman wind is shrill,

Howling upon the hill

In every wolfish tree, whose boisterous boughs,

Like desperate arms, gesture and beat the night,

And down huge clouds, in chasms of stormy white

The frightened moon hurries above the house,

Shall I lie down; and, deep, —

Letting the mad wind keep

Its shouting revel round me, – fall asleep.

Not till its dark halloo is hushed,

And where wild waters rushed, —

Like some hoofed terror underneath its whip

And spur of foam, – remains

A ghostly glass, hill-framed; whereover stains

Of moony mists and rains,

And stealthy starbeams, like vague specters, slip;

Shall I – with thoughts that take

Unto themselves the ache

Of silence as a sound – from sleep awake.