Читать книгу Dark Soil - Stringer Arthur - Страница 5

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I saw the crowd in the noonday street

Stand with uplifted faces,

Reverent and oddly silent.

And for a fleeting moment I wondered

If men still sought for God.

But the thing that held them rapt

Was a sky-writer, weaving his letters of smoke,

High up in the limitless azure,—

Zooming and wheeling and banking again,

A lonely mote in the blue,

In the infinite blue

Where an Angel’s wings might hover

Or a Prophet sit on a cloud:

Yet ’twas nothing more than a man,

A goggled man and a motor,

Where God should have been.