Читать книгу Poems, and The Spring of Joy - Mary Webb - Страница 18

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Against the gaunt, brown-purple hill

The bright brown oak is wide and bare;

A pale-brown flock is feeding there—

Contented, still.

No bracken lights the bleak hill-side;

No leaves are on the branches wide;

No lambs across the fields have cried;

—Not yet.

But whorl by whorl the green fronds climb;

The ewes are patient till their time;

The warm buds swell beneath the rime—

For life does not forget.