Читать книгу Oxford Poetry, 1917 - Various - Страница 4
ОглавлениеFAVETE LINGUIS
There are few people, being by,
That leave me peacefully to lie:
Mostly their restless brains, or mine,
Seek each the other to divine:
Silence, that rightfully should be
Clear-hearted as a stretch of sea
That runs far inland, luminous,
To rest in still shades verdurous,
Becomes instead a thwarted thing,
With only waywardness to bring.
All otherwise in you I find
The inner places of the mind:
The gift of quiet on your brow
Like some long benediction now
Closes upon me: spirit-born
Tranquillity enfolds each worn
Wan thought, with slender fingers cool
Drawing away from off the pool
Of night the mists that hide a star,
Dreaming wondrously afar:
Till vision cometh down for me
In gracious white serenity.
