Josephine Preston Peabody (Жозефина Престон Пибоди)

The Cloud

The islands called me far away,
   The valleys called me home.
The rivers with a silver voice
   Drew on my heart to come.

The paths reached tendrils to my hair
   From every vine and tree.
There was no refuge anywhere
   Until I came to thee.

There is a northern cloud I know,
   Along a mountain crest;
And as she folds her wings of mist,
   So I could make my rest.

There is no chain to bind her so
   Unto that purple height;
And she will shine and wander, slow,
   Slow, with a cloud's delight.

Would she begone? She melts away,
   A heavenly joyous thing.
Yet day will find the mountain white,
   White-folded with her wing.

As you may see, but half aware
   If it be late or soon,
Soft breathing on the day-time air,
   The fair forgotten Moon.

And though love cannot bind me, Love,
   -- Ah no! -- yet I could stay
Maybe, with wings forever spread,
   -- Forever, and a day. 

1. The Green Singing-Book
2. The Mystic
3. The Play's the Thing
4. Cakes and Ale
5. Polite Visitor

Percy Shelley (Перси Шелли) The Cloud ("I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers")

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1976

Последние стихотворения

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