Читать книгу The Parthenon - George Hobson - Страница 14

That rock, the moon, is settled in the fork of an ancient oak tree

Like a stone in a sling

Waiting to be flung into the night;

Or yet like a ball in a goalie’s hands, ready

To be kicked downfield to the ring

Of pale stars hovering on the edge of light.

Unearthly, the globe becomes imagination’s playground

And changes into anything

At fancy’s nod: a round arena

Holding angel choirs, say, who, white-winged, sound

Notes from spheres unseen, echoing

The sun, as recordings of an opera

Carry voices of the original ensemble.

Like gauze, the praise floats white

On wood and field, bleaching the black

Air empty of primary light, a-tremble

Under the soft wind’s slight

Flutter, like a loved cat splayed on its back,