Читать книгу A Few More Verses - Coolidge Susan - Страница 14

THE last sweet flowers are dying,

The last green leaves are red;

The wild geese southward flying,

By law mysterious led,

Scream noisily o’erhead;

The honey-bees have hived them,

The butterflies have shrived them;

All hushed the song and twitter

And flutter of glad wing; —

How could we bear the autumn

If t’were not for the spring?

To see the summer banished,

Nor dare to bid her stay;

To mourn o’er beauty vanished

And joyance driven away;

To mark the shortening day;

To note the sad winds plaining,

The storm cloud and the raining;

To see the frost lance stabbing

Each faint and wounded thing; —

Oh, we should hate the autumn

Excepting for the spring!

To know that life is failing

And pulses beating slow;

To catch the unavailing

Sad monotones of woe

All the earth over go;

To know that snows must cover

The grave of friend and lover,

To hide them from the eyes and hands

That still caress and cling; —

The heart would break in autumn

If there were not a spring!

For every sleep a waking,

For every shade a sun,

A balm for each heart breaking,

A rest for labor done,

A life by death begun;

And so in wintry weather,

With smile and sigh together,

We look beyond the present pain,

The daily loss and sting,

And welcome in the autumn

For the sure hope of spring.