Читать книгу Where Robot Mice And Robot Men Run Round In Robot Towns - Рэй Брэдбери, Ray Bradbury, Ray Bradbury Philip K. Dick Isaac Asimov - Страница 11

It was a smother of Time, a crumbling of white;

The night gave way in hysterias trembling to cold,

Grown old and falling apart, let its white heart go

And slow and slow in a withering slide from the dark

The snow fell down and down with no lantern nor spark

Nor star nor moon to show its fracture and fall

Appalling in all its shivering shaken chill dusts

In soft clamors and tremors of panic it touched my sill

Like an old woman begging the storm to keep warm with mere crusts

And make do on my cat-couching hearth

Where a teakettle cinnamon puss kneels and folds

And beholds a soft inner contentment, a bumblebee simmer kept there

Like a hive on the hearth in a honeycomb color of cat

While nibbling the windows and gnawing raw rainspout toes

And flaking the rainbarrel frost there the smothering goes;

A funeral quell passes by in a pageant of lost

And cataracts windowpane eyes with a filming of frost

And sugars the dogs as they yellow-write sums in the snow—

Strange Orient alphabets sprinkled where smiling dogs go.

And the winter’s old bones fall apart in a shatter of white

And I bed with my bumblebee honeycomb cat for the night

And the sound of the snow grows in heart-murmur patterns yet dimmer

And the one thing I hear in deep sleep is the motor of cat:

What sound’s that?

Long-lost summer.