Читать книгу Farewell - F. W. Harvey - Страница 8

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Here in the ring of the hills,

Under a cloudy sky,

Content at last I lie

Where Peace o’erspills

Like a cool rain which giveth

This brave daisy scent

And wine of sacrament

Whereby he liveth.

The big hooters may howl,

Men quarrel, whistles screech,

I will hear only the speech

Of my forgotten soul,

Which is the speech of trees,

Soft yet of clarity

And brimmed with verity

And all gay peace.