-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Люси Мод Монтгомери
-
- Аня из Авонлеи
-
- Стр. 81/198
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
“
There
.
.
.
down
in
the
brook
.
.
.
that
old
green
,
mossy
log
with
the
water
flowing
over
it
in
those
smooth
ripples
that
look
as
if
they
’
d
been
combed
,
and
that
single
shaft
of
sunshine
falling
right
athwart
it
,
far
down
into
the
pool
.
Oh
,
it
’
s
the
most
beautiful
poem
I
ever
saw
.
”
“
I
should
rather
call
it
a
picture
,
”
said
Jane
.
“
A
poem
is
lines
and
verses
.
”
“
Oh
dear
me
,
no
.
”
Anne
shook
her
head
with
its
fluffy
wild
cherry
coronal
positively
.
“
The
lines
and
verses
are
only
the
outward
garments
of
the
poem
and
are
no
more
really
it
than
your
ruffles
and
flounces
are
YOU
,
Jane
.
The
real
poem
is
the
soul
within
them
.
.
.
and
that
beautiful
bit
is
the
soul
of
an
unwritten
poem
.
It
is
not
every
day
one
sees
a
soul
.
.
.
even
of
a
poem
.
”
“
I
wonder
what
a
soul
.
.
.
a
person
’
s
soul
.
.
.
would
look
like
,
”
said
Priscilla
dreamily
“
Like
that
,
I
should
think
,
”
answered
Anne
,
pointing
to
a
radiance
of
sifted
sunlight
streaming
through
a
birch
tree
.
“
Only
with
shape
and
features
of
course
.
I
like
to
fancy
souls
as
being
made
of
light
.
And
some
are
all
shot
through
with
rosy
stains
and
quivers
.
.
.
and
some
have
a
soft
glitter
like
moonlight
on
the
sea
.
.
.
and
some
are
pale
and
transparent
like
mist
at
dawn
.
”
“
I
read
somewhere
once
that
souls
were
like
flowers
,
”
said
Priscilla
.
“
Then
your
soul
is
a
golden
narcissus
,
”
said
Anne
,
“
and
Diana
’
s
is
like
a
red
,
red
rose
.
Jane
’
s
is
an
apple
blossom
,
pink
and
wholesome
and
sweet
.
”
“
And
your
own
is
a
white
violet
,
with
purple
streaks
in
its
heart
,
”
finished
Priscilla
.
Jane
whispered
to
Diana
that
she
really
could
not
understand
what
they
were
talking
about
.
Could
she
?
The
girls
went
home
by
the
light
of
a
calm
golden
sunset
,
their
baskets
filled
with
narcissus
blossoms
from
Hester
’
s
garden
,
some
of
which
Anne
carried
to
the
cemetery
next
day
and
laid
upon
Hester
’
s
grave
.
Minstrel
robins
were
whistling
in
the
firs
and
the
frogs
were
singing
in
the
marshes
.
All
the
basins
among
the
hills
were
brimmed
with
topaz
and
emerald
light
.