George MacDonald (Äæîðäæ Ìàêäîíàëüä)

To June

Ah, truant, thou art here again, I see!
For in a season of such wretched weather
I thought that thou hadst left us altogether,
Although I could not choose but fancy thee
Skulking about the hill-tops, whence the glee
Of thy blue laughter peeped at times, or rather
Thy bashful awkwardness, as doubtful whether
Thou shouldst be seen in such a company
Of ugly runaways, unshapely heaps
Of ruffian vapour, broken from restraint
Of their slim prison in the ocean deeps.
But yet I may not chide: fall to thy books-
Fall to immediately without complaint-
There they are lying, hills and vales and brooks. 

1. Song of the Waiting Dead
2. Appeal
3. The Women who Ministered unto Him
4. Truth, not Form!
5. Home from the Wars

Ðàñïå÷àòàòü ñòèõîòâîðåíèå (Poem to print)

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