Читать книгу Poems, and The Spring of Joy - Mary Webb - Страница 39

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Long aisles of larches stretch away,

Mysterious, dim;

And in their branches breezes play

A solemn hymn.

Across the glades the larches fling

Their shadows, stirred

Faintly, but no bird lifts a wing,

And sings no bird.

The flecks of sunlight shift and crowd

So goldenly,

And softly faints the last thin cloud

From the blue sky.