Читать книгу Poems, and The Spring of Joy - Mary Webb - Страница 26

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The moon, beyond her violet bars,

From towering heights of thunder-cloud,

Sheds calm upon our scarlet wars,

To soothe a world so small, so loud.

And little clouds like feathered spray,

Like rounded waves on summer seas,

Or frosted panes on a winter day,

Float in the dark blue silences.

Within their foam, transparent, white,

Like flashing fish the stars go by

Without a sound across the night.

In quietude and secrecy

The white, soft lightnings feel their way

To the boundless dark and back again,

With less stir than a gnat makes

In its little joy, its little pain.