Читать книгу Childe Harold's Pilgrimage (With Byron's Biography) - Lord Byron - Страница 201

Here in the sultriest season let him rest,

Fresh is the green beneath those aged trees;

Here winds of gentlest wing will fan his breast,fa From Heaven itself he may inhale the breeze: The plain is far beneath—oh! let him seize Pure pleasure while he can; the scorching ray Here pierceth not, impregnate with disease: Then let his length the loitering pilgrim lay, And gaze, untired, the Morn—the Noon—the Eve away.