Читать книгу Poems, and The Spring of Joy - Mary Webb - Страница 13

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In April, in April

My heart is set

Where the pansy and the violet

And the daffodil,

And close-folded lilies grow

In borders dark with melted snow.

Wakening there from wintry sleep

With every bud I sunward creep.

The empurpled crocuses, that dare

With delicate veins the dawn-cold air,

Cradle me in their chalices

Amid the golden sediment.

There I lie in warm content

And listen to the velvet bees,

Watching their dark blue shadows fall

Along the half-transparent wall.

When the sharp-pointed grasses prick

Upward, all passionate to be free,

I share their conflict, fierce and quick,

With the earthen will; I know their glee.

In the star-tinted pimpernel

I hear the silver tongue of rain;

And learn the perfume thrushes smell,

Which makes their song as keen as pain;

And see, where long-lashed daisies crowd,

New revelations in the cloud.

That is why, when old I grow

And near my end, I shall not know.

For every year my heart is set

With the pansy and the violet

And the daffodil:

Submerged within their beauty, I

Transcend my poor mortality.