Henry Thoreau (Генри Торо)

* * *

Pray to what earth does this sweet cold belong,
Which asks no duties and no conscience?
The moon goes up by leaps, her cheerful path
In some far summer stratum of the sky,
While stars with their cold shine bedot her way.
The fields gleam mildly back upon the sky,
And far and near upon the leafless shrubs
The snow dust still emits a silver light.
Under the hedge, where drift banks are their screen,
The titmice now pursue their downy dreams,
As often in the sweltering summer nights
The bee doth drop asleep in the flower cup,
When evening overtakes him with his load.
By the brooksides, in the still, genial night,
The more adventurous wanderer may hear
The crystals shoot and form, and winter slow
Increase his rule by gentlest summer means.

1. Let Such Pure Hate Still Underprop
2. On Fields Oer Which the Reaper's Hand Has Passd
3. What's the Railroad to Me?
4. The Moon
5. Smoke

Распечатать (Print)

Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1229

Последние стихотворения

To English version