Читать книгу Poems, and The Spring of Joy - Mary Webb - Страница 16

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Who’ll walk the fields with us to town,

In an old coat and a faded gown?

We take our roots and country sweets

Where high walls shade the steep old streets,

And golden bells and silver chimes

Ring up and down the sleepy times.

The morning mountains smoke like fires;

The sun spreads out his shining wires;

The mower in the half-mown leasur

Sips his tea and takes his pleasure.

Along the lanes slow waggons amble;

The sad-eyed calves awake and gamble;

The foal that lay so sorrowful

Is playing in the grasses cool.

By slanting ways, in slanting sun,

Through startled lapwings now we run

Along the pale green hazel-path,

Through April’s lingering aftermath

Of lady’s smock and lady’s slipper;

We stay to watch a nesting dipper.

The rabbits eye us while we pass,

Out of the sorrel-crimson grass;

The blackbird sings, without a fear,

Where honeysuckle horns blow clear—

Cool ivory stained with true vermilion;

And here, within a silk pavilion,

Small caterpillars lie at ease.

The endless shadows of the trees

Are painted purple and cobalt;

Grandiloquent, the rook-files halt,

Each one aware of you and me,

And full of conscious dignity.

Our shoes are golden as we pass

With pollen from the pansied grass.

Beneath an elder—set anew

With large clean plates to catch the dew—

On fine white cheese and bread we dine:

The clear brook-water tastes like wine.

If all folk lived with labour sweet

Of their own busy hands and feet,

Such marketing, it seems to me,

Would make an end of poverty.