Читать книгу The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 2 - George MacDonald - Страница 4

Alas, 'tis cold and dark!

The wind all night hath sung a wintry tune!

Hail from black clouds that swallowed up the moon

Beat, beat against my bark.

Oh! why delays the spring?

Not yet the sap moves in my frozen veins;

Through all my stiffened roots creep numbing pains,

That I can hardly cling.

The sun shone yester-morn;

I felt the glow down every fibre float,

And thought I heard a thrush's piping note

Of dim dream-gladness born.

Then, on the salt gale driven,

The streaming cloud hissed through my outstretched arms,

Tossed me about in slanting snowy swarms,

And blotted out the heaven.

All night I brood and choose

Among past joys. Oh, for the breath of June!

The feathery light-flakes quavering from the moon

The slow baptizing dews!

Oh, the joy-frantic birds!—

They are the tongues of us, mute, longing trees!

Aha, the billowy odours! and the bees

That browse like scattered herds!

The comfort-whispering showers

That thrill with gratefulness my youngest shoot!

The children playing round my deep-sunk root,

Green-caved from burning hours!

See, see the heartless dawn,

With naked, chilly arms latticed across!

Another weary day of moaning loss

On the thin-shadowed lawn!

But icy winter's past;

Yea, climbing suns persuade the relenting wind:

I will endure with steadfast, patient mind;

My leaves will come at last!