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Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди)) The Upper Birch-Leaves Warm yellowy-green In the blue serene, How they skip and sway On this autumn day! They cannot know What has happened below, – That their boughs down there Are already quite bare, That their own will be When a week has passed, – For they jig as in glee To this very last. But no; there lies At times in their tune A note that cries What at first I fear I did not hear: ‘O we remember At each wind’s hollo – Though life holds yet – We go hence soon, For ’tis November; – But that you follow You may forget!’ Thomas Hardy's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1328 |
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