Эдит Несбит (Edith Nesbit)

Before Winter

   THE wind is crying in the night,
      Like a lost child;
   The waves break wonderful and white
      And wild.
   The drenched sea-poppies swoon along
      The drenched sea-wall,
   And there’s an end of summer and of song—
      An end of all.

   The fingers of the tortured boughs
      Gripped by the blast
   Clutch at the windows of your house
      Closed fast.
   And the lost child of love, despair,
      Cries in the night,
   Remembering how once those windows were
      Open and bright.

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