Английская поэзия

ГлавнаяБиографииСтихи по темамСлучайное стихотворениеПереводчикиСсылкиАнтологии
Рейтинг поэтовРейтинг стихотворений

Edmund Clarence Stedman (Эдмунд Кларенс Стедман)

The World Well Lost

THAT year? Yes, doubtless I remember still,--
  Though why take count of every wind that blows!
'T was plain, men said, that Fortune used me ill
  That year,--the self-same year I met with Rose.

Crops failed; wealth took a flight; house, treasure, land,
  Slipped from my hold--thus plenty comes and goes.
One friend I had, but he too loosed his hand
  (Or was it I?) the year I met with Rose.

There was a war, I think; some rumor, too,
  Of famine, pestilence, fire, deluge, snows;
Things went awry. My rivals, straight in view,
  Throve, spite of all; but I,--I met with Rose.

That year my white-faced Alma pined and died:
  Some trouble vexed her quiet heart,--who knows?
Not I, who scarcely missed her from my side,
  Or aught else gone, the year I met with Rose.

Was there no more? Yes, that year life began:
  All life before a dream, false joys, light woes,--
All after-life compressed within the span
  Of that one year,--the year I met with Rose!

Edmund Clarence Stedman's other poems:
  1. How Old Brown Took Harper's Ferry
  2. Sumter
  3. Kearny at Seven Pines
  4. Wanted—A Man
  5. Treason's Last Device

Распечатать стихотворение. Poem to print Распечатать стихотворение (Poem to print)

Количество обращений к стихотворению: 763

Последние стихотворения

To English version


Английская поэзия. Адрес для связи eng-poetry.ru@yandex.ru