Читать книгу Dream-Songs for the Belovèd - Eleanor Farjeon - Страница 3

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Unuttered songs fly round my thoughts like birds,

And aerially, above an earth of words,

Imagined music on my spirit showers

From azure-feathered throat and golden tongue.

Most dear, of the many songs I cannot sing

Yours is the bird of heavenliest wing

Whose sunward flight beyond my following towers

And leaves me with an impotent harp unstrung.

And yet the shadow of my song for you

Falls on my heart forever as a dew,

Or the dim-breathing soul of evening flowers

That love the delicate light of stars still young.

These lesser songs that all who listen may hear

Shall we call yours for a day, most dear, most dear?—

Knowing there is one other, only ours,

For ever singing, and for ever unsung.

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