Читать книгу Poems - French Nora May - Страница 7

WHO goes to meet the windy night

With unseen comrades shouting by,

Who grips a bough in swift delight

To let it dip and loose and fly;

Who runs for rest that running gives,

Runs till his throbbing muscles speak;

Who bends to feel how keenly lives

The joyous grass beneath his cheek —

With sudden tears his eyes shall fill,

With quick-drawn breath he sees them plain —

Those bodies that must lie so still,

So tired – in the House of Pain.