Читать книгу Dark Soil - Stringer Arthur - Страница 14

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The thin gold of the sun lies slanting on the hill;

In the sorrowful grays and muffled violets of the old orchard

A group of girls are quietly gathering apples.

Through the mingled gloom and green they scarcely speak at all,

And their broken voices rise and fall unutterably sad.

There are no birds,

And the goldenrod is gone.

And a child calls out, far away, across the autumn twilight;

And the sad gray of the dusk grows slowly deeper,

And all the world seems old!