Уильям Вордсворт (William Wordsworth)

To the River Greta, near Keswick

GRETA, what fearful listening! when huge stones
Rumble along thy bed, block after block;
Or, whirling with reiterated shock,
Combat, while darkness aggravates the groans:
But if thou (like Cocytus from the moans
Heard on his rueful margin) thence wert named
The mourner, thy true nature was defamed,
And the habitual murmur that atones
For thy worst rage forgotten. Oft as Spring
Decks, on thy sinuous banks, her thousand thrones,
Seats of glad instinct and love’s carolling,
The concert, for the happy, then may vie
With liveliest peals of birthday harmony;
To a grieved heart the notes are benisons.

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