Читать книгу Lays and Legends (Second Series) - Эдит Несбит, Nesbit Edith - Страница 2

The year fades, as the west wind sighs,

And droops in many-coloured ways,

But your soft presence never dies

From out the pathway of my days.

The spring is where you are, but still

You from your heaven to me can bring

Sweet dreams and flowers enough to fill

A thousand empty worlds with Spring.

I walk the wet and leafless woods;

Your shadow ever goes before

And paints the russet solitudes

With colours Summer never wore.

I sit beside my lonely fire;

The ghostly twilight brings your face

And lights with memory and desire

My desolated dwelling-place.

Among my books I feel your hand

That turns the page just past my sight,

Sometimes behind my chair you stand

And read the foolish rhymes I write.

The old piano's keys I press

In random chords until I hear

Your voice, your rustling silken dress,

And smell the violets that you wear.

I do not weep now any more,

I think I hardly even sigh;

I would not have you think I bore

The kind of wound of which men die.

Believe that smooth content has grown

Over the ghastly grave of pain —

"Content!" … O lips, that were my own,

That I shall never kiss again!