Читать книгу Poems, and The Spring of Joy - Mary Webb - Страница 7
Оглавлениеto a bee
O bee!
While I believed you gathering in the sun
Nectar so busily,
What have you done?
My violet,
More white than well bleached linen, you have kissed:
Her white she must forget
In amethyst.
See, see,
How you have meddled with the snowy clover,
Making her ivory
Blush like a lover!
My primroses,
That gave a greenish, pale moonshine,
O mischief-making bees!
Are red as wine.
