Читать книгу Poems, and The Spring of Joy - Mary Webb - Страница 55

Table of Contents

When on the moss-green hill the wandering wind

Drowses, and lays his brazen trumpet down,

When snow-fed waters gurgle, cold and brown,

And wintered birds creep from the stacks to find

Solace, while each bright eye begins to see

A visionary nest in every tree—

Let us away, out of the murky day

Of sullen towns, into the silver noise

Of woods where every bud has found her way

Sunward, and every leaf has found a voice.