Читать книгу Undertones - Cawein Madison Julius - Страница 10

Under rocks whereon the rose,

Like a strip of morning, glows;

Where the azure-throated newt

Drowses on the twisted root;

And the brown bees, humming homeward,

Stop to suck the honey-dew;

Fern and leaf-hid, gleaming gloamward,

Drips the wildwood spring I knew,

Drips the spring my boyhood knew.

Myrrh and music everywhere

Haunt its cascades; – like the hair

That a naiad tosses cool,

Swimming strangely beautiful,

With white fragrance for her bosom,

For her mouth a breath of song; —

Under leaf and branch and blossom

Flows the woodland spring along,

Sparkling, singing, flows along.

Still the wet wan morns may touch

Its gray rocks, perhaps; and such

Slender stars as dusk may have

Pierce the rose that roofs its wave;

Still the thrush may call at noontide,

And the whippoorwill at night;

Nevermore, by sun or moontide,

Shall I see it gliding white,

Falling, flowing, wild and white.