Читать книгу Poems, and The Spring of Joy - Mary Webb - Страница 40

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The birds will sing when I am gone

To stranger-folk with stranger-ways.

Without a break they’ll whistle on

In close and flowery orchard deeps,

Where once I loved them, nights and days,

And never reck of one that weeps.

The bud that slept within the bark

When I was there, will break her bars—

A small green flame from out the dark—

And round into a world, and spread

Beneath the silver dews and stars,

Nor miss my bent, attentive head.