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Arthur Graeme West (Артур Грэм Уэст) On Reading Ballads We lay upon a flowery hill Close by the railway lines, Apollo dusted gold on us Between the windy pines. We watched the London trains go by Full of the weary folk, Who travelled back that Sunday night To six more days of smoke. They stared out at the whirling fields, And when they saw us two, They turned their heads to follow us Till we were snatched from view. The year was at the summer’s spring When grass grows fresh and long, And flowers are more in bud than bloom, And cuckoos slacken song. The sainfoin and the purple vetch Nodding above our lair Sighed on the western breeze, whose might Could barely stir our hair. The hawkweed on our ballad book Sprinkled its pollen fine, And now and then a beetle dropped And wandered through a line. “Sir Patrick Spens” we loitered down, “Tam Lin” and “Young Beichan,” And almost felt the sunshine weep For the “Lass of Lochroyan.” Stanza on stanza endlessly From her lips or from mine Benumbed our dreaming souls, like drops Of a Circean wine. I watched her while she read to me, As children watch their nurse, Until my being throbbed to hear This solitary verse: “O western wind, when wilt thou blow That the small rain down can rain? Christ! That my love were in my arms And I in my bed again!” This little verse cut thorugh the twists Of the dream-twinèd spell, And “Robin Hood” sank back again With the “Wife of Usher’s Well.” And an illimitable desire Quickened our souls with pain. We knew that we were still at one With the people in the train. Arthur Graeme West's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1213 |
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