Читать книгу Poems, and The Spring of Joy - Mary Webb - Страница 9

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Where on the wrinkled stream the willows lean,

And fling a very ecstasy of green

Down the dim crystal, and the chestnut tree

Admires her large-leaved shadow, swift and free

A water ousel came, with such a flight

As archangels might envy. Soft and bright,

Upon a water-kissing bough she lit

And washed and preened her silver breast, though it

Was dazzling fair before. Then twittering

She sang, and made obeisance to the Spring.

And in the wavering amber at her feet

Her silent shadow, with obedience meet,

Made her quick, imitative curtsies too.

Maybe she dreamed a nest, so safe, so dear,

Where the keen spray leaps whitely to the weir;

And smooth, warm eggs that hold a mystery;

And stirrings of life, and twitterings that she

Is passionately glad of; and a breast

As silver white as hers, which without rest

Or languor, borne by spread wings swift and strong,

Shall fly upon her service all day long.

She hears a presage in the ancient thunder

Of the silken fall, and her small soul in wonder

Makes preparation as she deems most right,

Re-purifying what before was white

Against the day when, like a beautiful dream,

Two little ousels shall fly with her down-stream,

And even the poor, dumb shadow-bird shall flit

With two small shadows following after it.