Читать книгу С миру по нитке. Поэтические переводы - Ирина Явчуновская, Сара Тисдейл - Страница 18

Her voice is like clear water

That drips upon a stone

In forests far and silent

Where Quiet plays alone.

Her thoughts are like the lotus

Abloom by sacred streams

Beneath the temple arches

Where Quiet sits and dreams.

Her kisses are the roses

That glow while dusk is deep

In Persian garden closes

Where Quiet falls asleep.