Читать книгу Dark Soil - Stringer Arthur - Страница 7

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Below me,

In the blue-shadowed valley,

I see a far-off scythe-man

Felling his swathes of grain.

From side to side he swings

On a tilted shelf of gold,

And the sun leans over him

And there is no sound at all.

But abruptly he stops in his work,

Stands black in the opal light,

To whet his arrested blade.

The loud clangor of the stone

Along the resounding steel

Startles the quiet meadows.

Then the keen knife swings again,

And no sound comes up to us.

O Dear-To-Me,

Let us be silent too,

With the reaping that wakes no echo,

With the sheaf that makes no sound,

Forgetting the voluble clangor

Where stone against steel is song,

And men who know little of love

Talk of love too long!