Читать книгу The Parthenon - George Hobson - Страница 6

Glazed ferns gleam through tenebrous fir,

Stirring memories that rise,

Like trout to glinting lures,

From root-wheels and sodden logs

Mired on the bottom of years.

Slabs of sun and shadow

Stripe a grassy roadbank

Opposite a stand of pine trees

In the hills west of the Roannais

Above the bright-shining sword

Of the River Loire.

Mid-March,

Morning,

Balsam air.

Here, there,

Birds flit,

Twitter,

Sit like notes on the staffs

Of the scores of the bare branches.

All is on the verge.

On the ridge-tops, blue surges,

Scattering bibulous cloud

Hung over from night.

Blue strides down the green valley,

Embracing the willows,

Lovely in light gowns,

Shaking their tresses,

Their lemon tresses,

Laughing in welcome.

Across the hills, meanwhile,

Like salt grains on baize cloth,

Sheep graze solemnly,

And the Charolais cattle,

Sculpted in chalk,

Stand motionless,

Outside of time.