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- Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд
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What
if
the
light
is
but
sun
and
the
little
streams
sing
not
,
We
are
together
,
it
seems
...
I
have
loved
you
so
...
What
did
the
last
night
hold
,
with
the
summer
over
,
Drawing
us
back
to
the
home
in
the
changing
glade
?
What
leered
out
of
the
dark
in
the
ghostly
clover
?
God
!
...
till
you
stirred
in
your
sleep
...
and
were
wild
afraid
...
Well
...
we
have
passed
...
we
are
chronicle
now
to
the
eerie
.
Curious
metal
from
meteors
that
failed
in
the
sky
;
Earth-born
the
tireless
is
stretched
by
the
water
,
quite
weary
,