Читать книгу Pipes O'Pan at Zekesbury - James Whitcomb Riley - Страница 4

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The pipes of Pan! Not idler now are they

Than when their cunning fashioner first blew

The pith of music from them: Yet for you

And me their notes are blown in many a way

Lost in our murmurings for that old day

That fared so well, without us.—Waken to

The pipings here at hand:—The clear halloo

Of truant-voices, and the roundelay

The waters warble in the solitude

Of blooming thickets, where the robin's breast

Sends up such ecstacy o'er dale and dell,

Each tree top answers, till in all the wood

There lingers not one squirrel in his nest

Whetting his hunger on an empty shell.