Читать книгу Beyond the Hills of Dream - Wilfred Campbell - Страница 9

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There dwells a spirit in the budding year—

As motherhood doth beautify the face—

That even lends these barren glebes a grace,

And fills gray hours with beauty that were drear

And bleak when the loud, storming March was here:

A glamour that the thrilled heart dimly traces

In swelling boughs and soft, wet, windy spaces,

And sunlands where the chattering birds make cheer.

I thread the uplands where the wind’s footfalls

Stir leaves in gusty hollows, autumn’s urns.

Seaward the river’s shining breast expands,

High in the windy pines a lone crow calls,

And far below some patient ploughman turns

His great black furrow over steaming lands.