Читать книгу Selections from Poe - Эдгар Аллан По, Edgar Allan Poe, Marta Fihel - Страница 17

Once it smiled a silent dell

Where the people did not dwell;

They had gone unto the wars,

Trusting to the mild-eyed stars,

Nightly, from their azure towers,

To keep watch above the flowers,

In the midst of which all day

The red sunlight lazily lay.

Now each visitor shall confess

The sad valley's restlessness.

Nothing there is motionless,

Nothing save the airs that brood

Over the magic solitude.

Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees

That palpitate like the chill seas

Around the misty Hebrides!

Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven

That rustle through the unquiet Heaven

Uneasily, from morn till even,

Over the violets there that lie

In myriad types of the human eye,

Over the lilies there that wave

And weep above a nameless grave!

They wave: – from out their fragrant tops

Eternal dews come down in drops.

They weep: – from off their delicate stems

Perennial, tears descend in gems.