Читать книгу Poems - Victor Hugo, Clara Inés Bravo Villarreal - Страница 32

     Squirrel, mount yon oak so high,

     To its twig that next the sky

         Bends and trembles as a flower!

     Strain, O stork, thy pinion well, —

     From thy nest 'neath old church-bell,

     Mount to yon tall citadel,

         And its tallest donjon tower!

     To your mountain, eagle old,

     Mount, whose brow so white and cold,

         Kisses the last ray of even!

     And, O thou that lov'st to mark

     Morn's first sunbeam pierce the dark,

     Mount, O mount, thou joyous lark —

         Joyous lark, O mount to heaven!

     And now say, from topmost bough,

     Towering shaft, and peak of snow,

         And heaven's arch – O, can you see

     One white plume that like a star,

     Streams along the plain afar,

     And a steed that from the war

         Bears my lover back to me?