Читать книгу Poems - French Nora May - Страница 15

THE tossing trees had every flag unfurled

To hail their chief, but now the sun is set,

And in the sweet new quiet on the world

The king is dead, the fickle leaves forget.

A placid earth, an air serene and still;

In misty blue the gradual smoke is thinned —

Only the grasses, leaning to his will,

The grasses hold a memory of wind.