Читать книгу Poems of To-Day: an Anthology - Various - Страница 32

  Too soothe and mild your lowland airs

    For one whose hope is gone:

  I'm thinking of a little tarn,

    Brown, very lone.

  Would now the tall swift mists could lay

    Their wet grasp on my hair,

  And the great natures of the hills

    Round me friendly were.

  In vain!—For taking hills your plains

    Have spoilt my soul, I think,

  But would my feet were going down

    Towards the brown tarn's brink.