Читать книгу Modern British Poetry - Various - Страница 15

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The moving sun-shapes on the spray,

The sparkles where the brook was flowing,

Pink faces, plightings, moonlit May—

These were the things we wished would stay;

But they were going.

Seasons of blankness as of snow,

The silent bleed of a world decaying,

The moan of multitudes in woe—

These were the things we wished would go;

But they were staying.