Читать книгу Herbs and Apples - Whitney Helen Hay - Страница 3

In the wood the dead trees stand,

Dead and living, hand to hand,

Being Winter, who can tell

Which is sick and which is well?

Standing upright, day by day

Sullenly their hearts decay

Till a wise wind lays them low,

Prostrate, empty, then we know.

So thro' forests of the street,

Men stand dead upon their feet,

Corpses without epitaph;

God withholds his wind of wrath,

So we greet them, and they smile,

Dead and doomed a weary while,

Only sometimes thro' their eyes

We can see the worm that plies.