William Morris (Уильям Моррис)

The Orchard

Midst bitten mead and acre shorn,
The world without is waste and worn,

But here within our orchard-close,
The guerdon of its labour shows.

O valiant Earth, O happy year
That mocks the threat of winter near,

And hangs aloft from tree to tree
The banners of the Spring to be. 

1. Iceland First Seen
2. Tapestry Trees
3. The Two Sides Of The River
4. The Son's Sorrow
5. The Burgher's Battle

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1670

Последние стихотворения

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