Читать книгу Bread and Circuses - Helen Parry Eden - Страница 6

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How late in the wet twilight doth that bird Prolong his ditty; from what darkling thorn, Dim elder wand or blackest box unstirred By drip of rain, is the dear descant borne? So late it is, two seeming candles shine Athwart blue panes in the extremest hedge, Ev’n the child’s bunch of daisies close their eyne In their horn goblet on the window ledge. Sad is the night, doth it so smell of spring And wake such ardours in thy pelted breast? Aye, thou wert ever one to stay and sing Of surgent East to the declining West:— And now thou’rt gone, the last of a bright breed, Draw-to the curtains, it is night indeed.