Читать книгу The Song Maker - A Collection of Poems - Sara Teasdale - Страница 23

The birds are all a-building,

They say the world's a-flower,

And still I linger lonely

Within a barren bower.

I weave a web of fancies

Of tears and darkness spun.

How shall I sing of sunlight

Who never saw the sun?

I hear the pipes a-blowing,

But yet I may not dance,

I know that Love is passing,

I cannot catch his glance.

And if his voice should call me

And I with groping dim

Should reach his place of calling

And stretch my arms to him,

The wind would blow between my hands

For Joy that I shall miss,

The rain would fall upon my mouth

That his will never kiss.