Текст оригинала на английском языке
At a Brookside
A RUNNING melody is in the noon Of grass-bound rivulet and tangled showers, Of sunlight, glancing through the cuckoo flowers To mingle golden ripples with the tune; In the wide light my senses seem to swoon, Drugged by the monotone of rhythmic hours And voice of spring-fed rivulet that dowers The winding meadow-land with music's boon. Caught in a shimmering net of sight and sound, And drawn, I know not wither, yet aware Am I of some soft touch, and, blown around My face, the plentitude of waving hair-- Nay, let me lie and dream this wondrous thing; My hand, one moment, held the hand of spring!
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