Читать книгу Selected Poems - John 1878-1967 Masefield - Страница 11

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Twilight it is, and the far woods are dim, and the rooks cry and call.

Down in the valley the lamps, and the mist, and a star over all,

There by the rick, where they thresh, is the drone at an end,

Twilight it is, and I travel the road with my friend.

I think of the friends who are dead, who were dear long ago in the past,

Beautiful friends who are dead, though I know that death cannot last;

Friends with the beautiful eyes that the dust has defiled,

Beautiful souls who were gentle when I was a child.