Читать книгу Poems of To-Day: an Anthology - Various - Страница 2

  Very old are the woods;

    And the buds that break

  Out of the briar's boughs,

    When March winds wake,

  So old with their beauty are—

    Oh, no man knows

  Through what wild centuries

    Roves back the rose.

  Very old are the brooks;

    And the rills that rise

  Where snow sleeps cold beneath

    The azure skies

  Sing such a history

    Of come and gone,

  Their every drop is as wise

    As Solomon.

  Very old are we men;

    Our dreams are tales

  Told in dim Eden

    By Eve's nightingales;

  We wake and whisper awhile,

    But, the day gone by,

  Silence and sleep like fields

    Of amaranth lie.