Shapes of Clay - читать онлайн бесплатно полную версию книги . Страница 52

NANINE.

We heard a song-bird trilling— 'T was but a night ago. Such rapture he was rilling As only we could know. This morning he is flinging His music from the tree, But something in the singing Is not the same to me. His inspiration fails him, Or he has lost his skill. Nanine, Nanine, what ails him That he should sing so ill? Nanine is not replying— She hears no earthly song. The sun and bird are lying And the night is, O, so long!