Читать книгу Poems, and The Spring of Joy - Mary Webb - Страница 14

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No silks have I, no furs nor feathers,

But one old gown that knows all weathers;

No veils nor parasols nor lace,

But rough hands and a tanned face.

Yet the soft, crinkled leaves are mine

Where pale, mysterious veins shine,

And laced larches upon the blue,

And grey veils where the moon looks through;

The cries of birds across the lawns

In dark and teeming April dawns;

The sound of wings at the door-sill,

Where grows the wet-eyed tormentil;

The ripe berry’s witcheries—

Its perfect round that satisfies;

And the gay scent of the wood I burn,

And the slap of butter in a busy churn.