Читать книгу Poems, and The Spring of Joy - Mary Webb - Страница 25

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There is a presence on the lonely hill,

Lovely and chill:

There is an emanation in the wood,

Half understood.

They come upon me like an evening cloud,

Stranger than moon-rise, whiter than a shroud.

I shall not see them plain

Ever again,

Though in my childhood days

I knew their ways.

They are as secret as the black cloud-shadows

Sliding along the ripe midsummer grass;

With a breath-taking majesty they pass,

Down by the water in the mournful meadows;

Out of the pale pink distance at the falling

Of dusk they gaze—remote, summoning, chill;

Sweetly in April I have heard them calling

Where through black ash-buds gleams the purple hill.