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. Of The Three Seekers
2. The Flowering Orchard
3. Sad-Eyed and Soft and Grey
4. The King Of Denmark's Sons
5. From the Upland to the Sea

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1808

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