Джордж Дарли (George Darley)




Текст оригинала на английском языке

On the Death of a Recluse


'Mid roaring brooks and dark moss-vales,
Where speechless Thought abides,
Still her sweet spirit dwells,
That knows no world besides.

Her form the woodland still retains -
Wound but a creeping flower,
Her very life-blood stains
There, in a falling shower.

Touch but th stream, drink but the air,
Her cheek, her breath, is known,
Ravish that red rose there,
And she is all thine own.





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