The Farm. Wendell Berry

Чтение книги онлайн.

      Go by the narrow road

      Along the creek, a burrow

      Under shadowy trees

      Such as a mouse makes through

      Tall grass, so that you may

      Forget the paved road you

      Have left behind, and all

      That it has led to. Or,

      Best, walk up through the woods,

      Around the valley rim,

      And down to where the trees

      Give way to cleared hillside,

      So that you reach the place

      Out of the trees’ remembrance

      Of their kind; seasonal

      And timeless, they stand in

      Uncounted time, and you

      Have passed among them, small

      As a mouse at a feast,

      Unnoticed at the feet

      Of all those mighty guests.

      Come on a clear June morning

      As the fog lifts, trees drip,

      And birds make everywhere

      Uninterrupted song.

      However you may come,

      You’ll see it suddenly

      Lie open to the light

      Amid the woods: a farm

      Little enough to see

      Or call across—cornfield,

      Hayfield, and pasture, clear

      As if remembered, dreamed