Rose Pogonias
A saturated meadow,
Sun-shaped and jewel-small,
A circle scarcely wider
Than the trees around were tall;
Where winds were quite excluded, 5
And the air was stifling sweet
With the breath of many flowers,—
A temple of the heat.
There we bowed us in the burning,
As the sun’s right worship is, 10
To pick where none could miss them
A thousand orchises;
For though the grass was scattered,
Yet every second spear
Seemed tipped with wings of color, 15
That tinged the atmosphere.
We raised a simple prayer
Before we left the spot,
That in the general mowing
That place might be forgot; 20
Or if not all so favoured,
Obtain such grace of hours,
That none should mow the grass there
While so confused with flowers.
© Copyright: Роберт Ли Фрост, 2010
Свидетельство о публикации №110100101688
Свидетельство о публикации №110100101688
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