Через дорогу легкий козодой                     Туда, сюда метнулся раз, другой —                     И меж ветвей небрежно, но умело                     Погнался вдруг за бабочкою белой.                     Давно замолк прохладный стук копыт,                     Невидимо вблизи река журчит,                     Последний раз всплеснули весла четко,                     У берега пристала где-то лодка.                     И этот звук, чуть слышный в тишине,                     Так внятно мысль подсказывает мне                     О трудовом окончившемся дне.

A WREN'S NEST

                    Among the dwellings framed by birds                        In field or forest with nice care,                     Is none that with the Jittle Wren's                        In snugness may compare.                     No door the tenement requires,                        And seldom needs a laboured roof:                     Yet is it to the fiercest sun                        Impervious, and storm-proof.                     So warm, so beautiful withal,                        In perfect fitness for its aim,                     That to the Kind by special grace;                        Their instinct surely came.                     And when for their abodes they seek                        An opportune recess,                     The hermit has no finer eye                        For shadowy quietness.                     These find, 'mid ivied abbey-walls,                        A canopy in some still nook;                     Others are pent-housed by a brae                        That overhangs a brook.                     There to the brooding bird her mate                        Warbles by fits his low clear song;                     And by the busy streamlet both                        Are sung to all day long.                     Or in sequestered lanes they build,                        Where, till the flitting bird's return,                     Her eggs within the nest repose,                        Like relics in an urn.                     But still, where general choice is good,                        There is a better and a best;                     And, among fairest objects, some                        Are fairer than the rest;                     This, one of those small builders proved                        In a green covert, where, from out                     The forehead of a pollard oak,                        The leafy antlers sprout;                     For She who planned the mossy lodge,                        Mistrusting her evasive skill,                     Had to a Primrose looked for aid                        Her wishes to fulfil.                     High on the trunk's projecting brow,                        And fixed an infant's span above                     The budding flowers, peeped forth the nest                        The prettiest of the grove!                     The treasure proudly did I show                        To some whose minds without disdain                     Can turn to little things; but once                        Looked up for it in vain:                     'Tis gone — a ruthless spoiler's prey,                        Who heeds not beauty, love, or song,                     Tis gone! (so seemed it) and we grieved                        Indignant at the wrong.                     Just three days after, passing by
Добавить отзыв
ВСЕ ОТЗЫВЫ О КНИГЕ В ИЗБРАННОЕ

0

Вы можете отметить интересные вам фрагменты текста, которые будут доступны по уникальной ссылке в адресной строке браузера.

Отметить Добавить цитату