Вітер у вербах
The Wild Wood
Comfrey,thepurplehand-in-handwiththewhite,creptforthtotakeitsplaceintheline;andatlastonemorningthediffidentanddelayingdog-rosesteppeddelicatelyonthestage,andoneknew,asifstring-musichadannounceditinstatelychordsthatstrayedintoagavotte,thatJuneatlastwashere.Onememberofthecompanywasstillawaited;theshepherd-boyforthenymphstowoo,theknightforwhomtheladieswaitedatthewindow,theprincethatwastokissthesleepingsummerbacktolifeandlove.Butwhenmeadow-sweet,debonairandodorousinamberjerkin,movedgraciouslytohisplaceinthegroup,thentheplaywasreadytobegin.
Andwhataplayithadbeen!Drowsyanimals,snugintheirholeswhilewindandrainwerebatteringattheirdoors,recalledstillkeenmornings,anhourbeforesunrise,whenthewhitemist,asyetundispersed,clungcloselyalongthesurfaceofthewater;thentheshockoftheearlyplunge,thescamperalongthebank,andtheradianttransformationofearth,air,andwater,whensuddenlythesunwaswiththemagain,andgreywasgoldandcolourwasbornandsprangoutoftheearthoncemore.Theyrecalledthelanguoroussiestaofhotmid-day,deepingreenundergrowth,thesunstrikingthroughintinygoldenshaftsandspots;theboatingandbathingoftheafternoon,theramblesalongdustylanesandthroughyellowcorn-fields;andthelong,cooleveningatlast,whensomanythreadsweregatheredup,somanyfriendshipsrounded,andsomanyadventuresplannedforthemorrow.
