George Henry Borrow (Джордж Генри Борроу)
Sadness
Lo, a pallid fleecy vapour Far along the East is spread; Every star has quench'd its taper, Lately glimmering over head. On the leaves, that bend so lowly, Drops of crystal water gleam; Yawning wide, the peasant slowly Drives afield his sluggish team. Dreary looks the forest, lacking Song of birds that slumber mute; No rough swain is yet attacking, With his bill, the beech's root. Night's terrific ghostly hour Backward through time's circle flies; No shrill clock from moss-grown tower Bids the dead men wake and rise. Wearied out with midnight riot Mystic Nature slumbers now; Mouldering bodies rest in quiet, 'Neath their tomb-lids damp and low; Sad and chill the wind is sighing Through the reeds that skirt the pool, All around looks dead or dying, Wrapt in sorrow, clad in dool.
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