Читать книгу Ирландский поэтарх - Уильям Йейтс - Страница 14

I DREAMED that one had died in a strange place

Near no accustomed hand,

And they had nailed the boards above her face,

The peasants of that land,

Wondering to lay her in that solitude,

And raised above her mound

A cross they had made out of two bits of wood,

And planted cypress round;

And left her to the indifferent stars above

Until I carved these words:

i {She was more beautiful than thy first love,}

i {But now lies under boards.}