Текст оригинала на английском языке
Home In War-Time
SHE turn’d the fair page with her fairer hand — More fair and frail than it was wont to be — O’er each remember’d thing he lov’d to see She linger’d, and as with a fairy’s wand Enchanted it to order. Oft she fann’d New motes into the sun; and as a bee Sings thro’ a brake of bells, so murmur’d she, And so her patient love did understand The reliquary room. Upon the sill She fed his favorite bird. “Ah, Robin, sing! He loves thee.” Then she touches a sweet string Of soft recall, and towards the Eastern hill Smiles all her soul—for him who cannot hear The raven croaking at his carrion ear.
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