Читать книгу Poems, and The Spring of Joy - Mary Webb - Страница 22

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Love me—and I will give into your hands

The rare, enamelled jewels of my lands,

Flowers red and blue,

Tender with air and dew.

From far green armouries of pools and meres

I’ll reach for you my lucent sheaves of spears—

The singing falls,

Where the lone ousel calls.

When, like a passing light upon the sea,

Your wood-bird soul shall clap her wings and flee,

She shall but nest

More closely in my breast.