Читать книгу Through The Looking Glass - Льюис Кэрролл, Льюїс Керролл, Furniss Harry - Страница 5

Child of the pure unclouded browAnd dreaming eyes of wonder!Though time be fleet, and I and thouAre half a life asunder,Thy loving smile will surely hailThe love-gift of a fairy-tale.

I have not seen thy sunny face,Nor heard thy silver laughter;No thought of me shall find a placeIn thy young life’s hereafter – Enough that now thou wilt not failTo listen to my fairy-tale.

A tale begun in other days,When summer suns were glowing –A simple chime, that served to timeThe rhythm of our rowing –Whose echoes live in memory yet,Though envious years would say ‘forget.’

Come, hearken then, ere voice of dread,With bitter tidings laden,Shall summon to unwelcome bedA melancholy maiden!We are but older children, dear,Who fret to find our bedtime near.

Without, the frost, the blinding snow,The storm-wind’s moody madness –Within, the firelight’s ruddy glowAnd childhood’s nest of gladness.

The magic words shall hold thee fast:Thou shalt not heed the raving blast.

And though the shadow of a sighMay tremble through the story,For ‘happy summer days’ gone by,And vanish’d summer glory –It shall not touch with breath of baleThe pleasance of our fairy-tale.