Читать книгу Poems, and The Spring of Joy - Mary Webb - Страница 41

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‘Their being is to be perceived.’

berkeley

Let fall your golden showers, laburnum tree!

Break the grey casket of your buds for me—

Soon I shall go where never gold is seen,

And who will be with you as I have been?

Quick with your silver notes, O silver bird!

Wistful, I listen for the song I heard

Many a day, but soon shall hear no more,

For summoning winds are out along the shore.

All things so early fade—swiftly pass over,

As autumn bees desert the withering clover.

Now, with the bee, I sing immortal June;

How soon both song and bee are gone—how soon!

Who’ll watch the clover secretly unclose?

Finger the sycamore buds, afire with rose?

Trace the mauve veins of the anemone?

Know the peculiar scent of every tree?

Maybe the solemn hill, the enchanted plain

Will be but arable and wild again,

Losing the purple bloom they wore for me—

The dreaming god I could so clearly see.