Читать книгу Poems, and The Spring of Joy - Mary Webb - Страница 36

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This is the hill, ringed by the misty shire—

The mossy, southern hill,

The little hill where larches climb so high.

Among the stars aslant

They chant;

Along the purple lower slopes they lie

In lazy golden smoke, more faint, more still

Than the pale woodsmoke of the cottage fire

Here some calm Presence takes me by the hand

And all my heart is lifted by the chant

Of them that lean aslant

In golden smoke, and sing, and softly bend:

And out from every larch-bole steals a friend.