Eleanor Farjeon (Элинор Фарджон)
The Last Week in September
CHILD'S VISION I saw a man, an old, old man, The oldest man I ever did see-- Well! I am very nearly five, And he was twice as old as me. His eyes were much too old for sight, His ears were much too old to hear, His beard it was all tangled and white, His old hands shook with a sort of fear. He had a kind of twiggy broom As though he had a room to mind, Yet he was not in any room But all among the blowy wind. I saw him stoop to gather things-- He had not very far to stoop-- Leaves that had scattered like the wings Of dead moths flying in a troop, And little broken sticks beside Where flowers and berries used to hang-- I wonder where the music died Of all the birds that in them sang?-- There were some feathers on the ground, And silky dried-up curls of flow'rs, And he went stooping round and round And gathering these things for hours. I stood and watched and asked him why, But still he groped about the mold And never made the least reply Because his ears were much too old. He got his broom and swept and swept A pile as round as any cup-- If I'd been littler I'd have wept To see him sweeping summer up. But I just stood and watched him there, And presently he didn't sweep, When there was nothing anywhere But summer lying in a heap. And then the old man found a light And stooped above the darling mound, And little dancing flames grew bright ... He burned up summer on the ground! But oh! there was the sweetest smell-- And yet the smell was sorry too-- Much sweeter than I ever could tell, Of all the things I ever knew. You could smell every kind of tree And every kind of flower there is, And wet weeds rather like the sea-- And something else as well as this. It was--I don't know what it was!-- The sweetest, sorriest smell of all. It crept in smoke-rings over the grass, And hung, and would not rise or fall. I think the old man must have known What smell it was, but would not say. He shuffled slowly off alone When summer all was burned away. One day when I'm a very old man Perhaps I'll be as wise as he ... But I am not quite five, you know, And he was twice as old as me. MAN'S VISION It was the longest August And the weariest September That ever I remember, That ever I remember! All the tedious summer I toiled among the city Where nothing fresh and sweet was Or cool or kind or pretty. Empty all the streets were, Every house was lonely, Nothing human moved there Saving me, me only. I saw little white things, Things with dreadful faces-- No, they were not children In the empty places. Haggard, haggard tired things Crossed my gaze and froze it-- Men and women never Looked so, and God knows it. Somewhere, men and women-- All the children, somewhere! If I asked the heavens The heavens only dumb were. Oh, the city pave-stones, Common, hard and dusty, Like ignoble grave-stones Of high hopes gone rusty. Oh, the arid, breathless Days devoid of rumour. Oh, the tedious, deathless, Hateful, humdrum summer ... I walked out with a leaden brain And a heart half-wild-- And suddenly I saw A Child. She had brown hands and brown bare knees And a glorious golden skin And eyes overlaid with sun on the sea And laughter's heart within. She stamped along the pavement With hard and happy feet, I was not done with gazing Till she out-raced the street. A Child! One Child! But next day, Oh, next day there were two! And half-a-score to follow, And so the legion grew. Children! Children! Children! Come straight from where God is, All the ocean's rhythm Rocking in their bodies, All the sea-scent, field-scent Blowing from their tresses, In their glad free glances All that Earth expresses, Sun-kissed, wind-kissed, Rain-kissed bands, Sand-yellow, sturdy legs, Flower-dabbled hands, Eyes so shining, such loud voices, Such hard, happy feet! Holiday-homing children Flowing through the street. Laughter's heart beat in The last week of September-- The sweetest I remember! The sweetest I remember!
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