Читать книгу Poems, and The Spring of Joy - Mary Webb - Страница 37

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Never any more shall the golden sun

Make of your leaves, my dainty one,

Ardent shields of silver-green,

With cool blue sky set in between.

Never any more in the chilly night

Your boughs shall move on the sad starlight,

Softly unbound by the eager air,

As a lover unbinds his lady’s hair.

Never any more, O poplar tree!

Shall dawn awaken your song for me;

For a wind came down from the granite hill,

And you, the friend of my heart, lie still.