Читать книгу The Wild Knight and Other Poems - Гилберт Честертон, Gilbert Keith Chesterton, Лорд Дансени - Страница 21

The violet scent is sacred

  Like dreams of angels bright;

The hawthorn smells of passion

  Told in a moonless night.

But the smell is in my nostrils,

  Through blossoms red or gold,

Of my own green flower unfading,

  A bitter smell and bold.

The lily smells of pardon,

  The rose of mirth; but mine

Smells shrewd of death and honour,

  And the doom of Adam's line.

The heavy scent of wine-shops

  Floats as I pass them by,

But never a cup I quaff from,

  And never a house have I.

Till dropped down forty fathoms,

  I lie eternally;

And drink from God's own goblet

  The green wine of the sea.