Стихотворения и сонеты
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Grown-up
Was it for this I uttered prayers, And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs, That now, domestic as a plate, I should retire at half-past eight? Четверг
THURSDAY
AND if I loved you Wednesday, Well, what is that to you? I do not love you Thursday — So much is true. And why you come complaining Is more than I can see. I loved you Wednesday, — yes-but what Is that to me? Возможно, что Ему
To the Not Impossible Him
How shall I know, unless I go To Cairo or Cathay, Whether or not this blessed spot Is blest in every way? Now it may be, the flower for me Is this beneath my nose; How shall I tell, unless I smell The Carthaginian rose? The fabric of my faithful love No power shall dim or ravel Whilst I stay here, — but oh, my dear, If I should ever travel! Пир
Feast
I drank at every vine. The last was like the first. I came upon no wine So wonderful as thirst. I gnawed at every root. I ate of every plant. I came upon no fruit So wonderful as want. Feed the grape and bean To the vintner and monger: I will lie down lean With my thirst and my hunger. Непутешественница
THE UNEXPLORER
THERE was a road ran past our house Too lovely to explore. I asked my mother once — she said That if you followed where it led It brought you to the milk-man's door. (That's why I have not traveled more.) Синяя Борода
Bluebeard
This door you might not open, and you did; So enter now, and see for what slight thing You are betrayed… Here is no treasure hid, No cauldron, no clear crystal mirroring The sought-for truth, no heads of women slain For greed like yours, no writhings of distress, But only what you see… Look yet again — An empty room, cobwebbed and comfortless. Yet this alone out of my life I kept Unto myself, lest any know me quite; And you did so profane me when you crept Unto the threshold of this room to-night That I must never more behold your face. This now is yours. I seek another place. Сонет XLII
* * *
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why, I have forgotten, and what arms have lain Under my head till morning; but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh Upon the glass and listen for reply, And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain For unremembered lads that not again Will turn to me at midnight with a cry. Thus in winter stands the lonely tree, Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one, Yet knows its boughs more silent than before: I cannot say what loves have come and gone, I only know that summer sang in me A little while, that in me sings no more. Поделиться с друзьями: