Читать книгу Poems - Cawein Madison Julius - Страница 17

  Under rocks whereon the rose

  Like a streak of morning glows;

  Where the azure-throated newt

  Drowses on the twisted root;

  And the brown bees, humming homeward,

  Stop to suck the honeydew;

  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,

  And 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 mornings 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.