Читать книгу Poems, and The Spring of Joy - Mary Webb - Страница 27

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A solemn land of long-fulfilled desires

Is this, and year by year the self-same fires

Burn in the trees. The untarnished colours keep

The sweetness of the young earth’s infant sleep:

Beyond the plain, beneath the evening star,

The burnished hills like stately peacocks are.

Great storms march out. The flocks across the grass

Make their low plaint while the swift shadows pass:

Memoried deep in Hybla, the wild bee

Sings in the purple-fruited damson tree:

And, darkly sweet as Ruth, the dairy maid

By the lean, laughing shepherd is waylaid.