Читать книгу Poems New and Old - John Freeman - Страница 4

Thy hill leave not, O Spring,

Nor longer leap down to the new-green'd Plain.

Thy western cliff-caves keep

O Wind, nor branch-borne Echo after thee complain

With grumbling wild and deep.

Let Blossom cling

Sudden and frozen round the eyes of trees,

Nor fall, nor fall.

Be still each Wing,

Hushed each call.

So was it ordered, so

Hung all things silent, still;

Only Time earless moved on, stepping slow

Up the scarped hill,

And even Time in a long twilight stayed

And, for a whim, that whispered whim obeyed.

There was no breath, no sigh,

No wind lost in the sky

Roamed the horizon round.

The harsh dead leaf slept noiseless on the ground,

By unseen mouse nor insect stirred

Nor beak of hungry bird.

Then were voices heard

Mingling as though each

Earth and grass had individual speech.

—Has evening fallen so soon,

And yet no Moon?

—No, but hark: so still

Was never the Spring's voice adown the hill!

I do not feel her waters tapping upon

The culvert's under stone.

—And if 'tis not yet night a thrush should sing.

—Or if 'tis night the owl should his far echo bring

Near, near.—And I

Should know the hour by his long-shaking distant cry.

—But how should echo be? The air is dead,

No song, no wing,

—No footfall overhead

Of beast—Or labourer passing, and no sound

Of labourer's Good-night, good-night, good-night!

—That we, here underground,

Take to ourselves and breathe unheard Good-night!

—O, it is lonely now with not one sound

Neath that arched profound,

—No throttled note

Sweet over us to float,

—No shadow treading light

Of man, beast, bird.

—If, earth in dumb earth, lie we here unstirred,

—Why, brother, it were death renewed again

If sun nor rain,

—O death undying, if no dear human touch nor sound

Fall on us underground!