Текст оригинала на английском языке
Sunday Chimes in the City
ACROSS the bridge, where in the morning blow The wrinkled tide turns homeward, and is fain Homeward to drag the balck sea-goer's chain, And the long yards by Dowgate dipping low; Across dispeopled ways, patient and slow, Saint Magnus and Saint Dunstan call in vain: >From Wren's forgotten belfries, in the rain, Down the blank wharves the dropping octaves go. Forbid not these! Tho' no man heed, they shower A subtle beauty on the empty hour, >From all their dark throats aching and outblown; Aye in the prayerless places welcome most, Like the last gull that up a naked coast Deploys her white and steady wing, alone.
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