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Moonset Past seven o'clock: time to be gone; Twelfth-night's over and dawn shivering up: A hasty cut of the loaf, a steaming cup, Down to the door, and there is Coachman John. Ruddy of cheek is John and bright of eye; But John it appears has none of your grins and winks; Civil enough, but short: perhaps he thinks: Words come once in a mile, and always dry. Has he a mind or not? I wonder; but soon We turn through a leafless wood, and there to the right, Like a sun bewitched in alien realms of night, Mellow and yellow and rounded hangs the moon. Strangely near she seems, and terribly great: The world is dead: why are we travelling still? Nightmare silence grips my struggling will; We are driving for ever and ever to find a gate. "When you come to consider the moon," says John at last, And stops, to feel his footing and take his stand; "And then there's some will say there's never a hand That made the world!" A flick, and the gates are passed. Out of the dim magical moonlit park, Out to the workday road and wider skies: There's a warm flush in the East where day's to rise, And I'm feeling the better for Coachman John's remark. Henry Newbolt's other poems: Poems of another poets with the same name (Стихотворения других поэтов с таким же названием): Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1203 |
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Английская поэзия. Адрес для связи eng-poetry.ru@yandex.ru |