Читать книгу Poems. Volume 1 - George Meredith - Страница 8

   The moon is alone in the sky

      As thou in my soul;

   The sea takes her image to lie

      Where the white ripples roll

         All night in a dream,

         With the light of her beam,

Hushedly, mournfully, mistily up to the shore.

         The pebbles speak low

         In the ebb and the flow,

As I when thy voice came at intervals, tuned to adore:

         Nought other stirred

         Save my heart all unheard

Beating to bliss that is past evermore.