Читать книгу Poems, and The Spring of Joy - Mary Webb - Страница 32

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The swallows pass in restless companies.

Against the pink-flowered may, one shining breast

Throbs momentary music—then, possessed

With motion, sweeps on some new enterprise.

Unquiet in heart, I hear their eager cries

And see them dart to their nests beneath the eaves;

Within my spirit is a voice that grieves,

Reminding me of empty autumn skies.

Nor can we rest in Nature’s dear delight:

June droops to winter, and the sun droops west.

Flight is our life. We build our crumbling nest

Beneath the dark eaves of the infinite,

We sing our song in beauty’s fading tree,

And flash forth, migrant, into mystery.