Читать книгу The Farm - Wendell Berry - Страница 6

Go by the narrow road

Along the creek, a burrow

Under shadowy trees

Such as a mouse makes through

Tall grass, so that you may

Forget the paved road you

Have left behind, and all

That it has led to. Or,

Best, walk up through the woods,

Around the valley rim,

And down to where the trees

Give way to cleared hillside,

So that you reach the place

Out of the trees’ remembrance

Of their kind; seasonal

And timeless, they stand in

Uncounted time, and you

Have passed among them, small

As a mouse at a feast,

Unnoticed at the feet

Of all those mighty guests.

Come on a clear June morning

As the fog lifts, trees drip,

And birds make everywhere

Uninterrupted song.

However you may come,

You’ll see it suddenly

Lie open to the light

Amid the woods: a farm

Little enough to see

Or call across—cornfield,

Hayfield, and pasture, clear

As if remembered, dreamed