Land Of Mine In Dire Neglect
Land of mine in dire neglect, Country run to waste, Fields of hay unmown as yet, Monastery, estate. Every cottage is askew, Five there are in all. In the setting sun their roofs Foam as shadows fall. Under shirt-thatch coverings Roof-ribs соте to view, Wind-blown specks of sunlight tinge Mould of dove-grey hue. Hitting panes unerringly Crows past windows weave, Like а snowstorm, the bird cherry Waves а blossom-sleeve. Wasn't your life а fairytale, А legend of the past То а late wayfarer told Ву the feather-grass?