Читать книгу Underneath the Bough: A Book of Verses онлайн
3 страница из 10
Twined with the ivy-vine in tendrilled curls!
And I will hold all gold that hampers man
But the base ashes of a barren dross!
On with the love-dance of the pagan girls!
The pagan girls with lips all rosy-red,
With breasts up-girt and foreheads garlanded!
With fair white foreheads nobly garlanded!
With sandalled feet that weave the magic ring
Now ... let them sing,
And I will pipe a song that all may hear,
To bid them mind the time of my wild rhyme!
Away! Away! Beware our mystic trees!
Who will not quest you, O Hesperides?...
IV
Great men of song, what sing ye? Woodland meadows?
Rocks, trees and rills where sunlight glints to gold?
Sing ye the hills adown whose sides blue shadows
Creep when the westering day is growing old?
Sing ye the brooks where in the purling shallows
The small fish dart and gleam?
Sing ye the pale green tresses of the willows
That stoop to kiss the stream?
Or sing ye burning streets and sweating toil
Where we spawned swarms of men, unendingly,
Above, below, in mart and workshop’s moil