Эдит Несбит (Edith Nesbit)

The Point of View: I

                                     I

   THERE was never winter, summer only: roses,
      Pink and white and red,
   Shining down the warm rich garden closes;
         Quiet trees and lawns of dappled shadow,
   Silver lilies, whisper of mignonette,
      Cloth-of-gold of buttercups outspread;
   Good gold sun that kissed me when we met,
         Shadows of floating clouds on sunny meadow.
   In the hay-field, scented, grey,
   Loving life and love, I lay;
   By fresh airs blown, drifted into sleep;
   Slept and dreamed there.  Winter was the dream.

                                     II

   Summer never was, was always winter only;
      Cold and ice and frost
   Only, driven by the ice-wind, lonely,
         In a world of strangers, in the welter
   Of the puddles and the spiteful wind and sleet,
      Blinded by the spitting hailstones, lost
   In a bitter unfamiliar street,
         I found a doorway, crouched there for just shelter,
   Crouched and fought in vain for breath,
   Cursed the cold and wished for death;
   Crouched there, gathered somehow warmth to sleep;
   Slept and dreamed there.  Summer was the dream.

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