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. Pain And Time Strive Not
2. From the Upland to the Sea
3. To The Muse Of The North
4. Pray But One Prayer For Us
5. Mother and Son

Распечатать (To print)

Количество обращений к стихотворению: 2009

Последние стихотворения

To English version