Читать книгу The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson – Swanston Edition. Volume 14 - Robert Louis Stevenson - Страница 58

Even in the bluest noonday of July,

There could not run the smallest breath of wind

But all the quarter sounded like a wood;

And in the chequered silence and above

The hum of city cabs that sought the Bois,

Suburban ashes shivered into song.

A patter and a chatter and a chirp

And a long dying hiss – it was as though

Starched old brocaded dames through all the house

Had trailed a strident skirt, or the whole sky

Even in a wink had over-brimmed in rain.

Hark, in these shady parlours, how it talks

Of the near Autumn, how the smitten ash

Trembles and augurs floods! O not too long

In these inconstant latitudes delay,

O not too late from the unbeloved north

Trim your escape! For soon shall this low roof

Resound indeed with rain, soon shall your eyes

Search the foul garden, search the darkened rooms,

Nor find one jewel but the blazing log.