Читать книгу Bog-Myrtle and Peat - S. R. Crockett - Страница 13

O mellow rain upon the clover tops; O breath of morning blown o'er meadow-sweet; Lush apple-blooms from which the wild bee drops Inebriate; O hayfield scents, my feet

Scatter abroad some morning in July; O wildwood odours of the birch and pine, And heather breaths from great red hill-tops nigh, Than olive sweeter or Sicilian vine;—

Not all of you, nor summer lands of balm— Not blest Arabia, Nor coral isles in seas of tropic calm. Such heart's desire into my heart can draw.