1 мин
Слушать(AI)Summer in the South
The Oriole sings in the greening grove As if he were half-way waiting,
The rosebuds peep from their hoods of green,
Timid, and hesitating.
The rain comes down in a torrent sweep And the nights smell warm and pinety,
The garden thrives, but the tender shoots Are yellow-green and tiny.
Then a flash of sun on a waiting hill,
Streams laugh that erst were quiet,
The sky smiles down with a dazzling blue And the woods run mad with riot.
Paul Laurence Dunbar
Paul Laurence Dunbar (June 27, 1872 – February 9, 1906) was an American poet, novelist, and playwright of the late 19th and early 20th centuries
Комментарии
Вам нужно войти , чтобы оставить комментарий
Другие работы автора
The Poet
He sang of life, serenely sweet, With, now and then, a deeper note From some high peak, nigh yet remote, He voiced the world's absorbing beat He sang of love when earth was young, And Love, itself, was in his lays
We Wear the Mask
We wear the mask that grins and lies, It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,— This debt we pay to human guile; With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
Common Things
I like to hear of wealth and gold, And El Doradoes in their glory; I like for silks and satins bold To sweep and rustle through a story The nightingale is sweet of song;
Dawn
AN angel, robed in spotless white, Bent down and kissed the sleeping Night Night woke to blush; the sprite was gone Men saw the blush and called it Dawn
