Читать книгу Poems, and The Spring of Joy - Mary Webb - Страница 47

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You took the rare blue from my cloudy sky;

You shot the one bird in my silent wood;

You crushed my rose—one rose alone had I.

You have not known. You have not understood.

I would have shown you pictures I have seen

Of unimagined mountains, plains and seas;

I would have made you songs of leafy green,

If you had left me some small ecstasies.

Now let the one dear field be only field,

That was a garden for the mighty gods.

Take you its corn. I keep its better yield—

The glory that I found within its clods.