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Time There is no moment but whose flight doth bring Bright clouds and fluttering leaves to deck my bower; And I within like some sweet bird must sing To tell the story of the passing hour; For time has secrets that no bird has sung, Nor changing leaf with changing season told; They wait the utterance of some nobler tongue Like that which spoke in prophet tones of old; Then day and night, and month and year shall tell The tale that speaks but faint from bird and bough; In spirit-songs their praise shall upward swell Nor longer pass heaven's gate unheard as now, But cause e'en angels' ears to catch the strain, And send it back to earth in joy again. Jones Very's other poems: Poems of another poets with the same name (Стихотворения других поэтов с таким же названием): Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1269 |
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Английская поэзия. Адрес для связи eng-poetry.ru@yandex.ru |