A weft of leafless spray
Woven fine against the gray
Of the autumnal day,
And blurred along those ghostly garden tops
Clusters of berries crimson as the drops
That my heart bleeds when I remember
How often, in how many a far November,
Of childhood and my children’s childhood I was glad,
With the wild rapture of the Fall,
Of all the beauty, and of all
The ruin, now so intolerably sad.
Уильям Дин Хоуэллс - Ноябрь редакция
© Copyright: Владимир Викторович Голубихин, 2020
Свидетельство о публикации №120120800562
Свидетельство о публикации №120120800562
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