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Ina Donna Coolbrith (Ина Донна Кулбрит) October THE summer-rose is dead; The sad leaves, withered, Strew ankle-deep the pathways to our tread. Dry grasses mat the plain, And drifts of blossom slain; And day and night the wind is like a pain. No nightingale to sing In green boughs, listening, Through balmy twilight hushes of the spring. No thrush, no oriole In music to out-roll The little golden raptures of his soul. O royal summer-reign! When will you come again, Bringing the happy birds across the main? O blossoms ! when renew Your pretty garbs, and woo Your waiting, wild-bee lovers back to you? For lo, my heart is numb; For lo, my heart is dumb— Is silent till the birds and blossoms come! A flower, that lieth cold Under the wintry mold, Waiting the warm spring-breathing to unfold. O swallow! all too slow Over the waves you go, Dipping your light wings in their sparkling flow. Over the golden sea, O swallow! flying free, Fly swiftly with the summer back to me. Ina Donna Coolbrith's other poems: Poems of another poets with the same name (Стихотворения других поэтов с таким же названием): Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1280 |
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