Henry Timrod (Генри Тимрод)

Sonnets. 9. I Know Not Why, But All This Weary Day

I know not why, but all this weary day,
Suggested by no definite grief or pain,
Sad fancies have been flitting through my brain;
Now it has been a vessel losing way,
Rounding a stormy headland; now a gray
Dull waste of clouds above a wintry main;
And then, a banner, drooping in the rain,
And meadows beaten into bloody clay.
Strolling at random with this shadowy woe
At heart, I chanced to wander hither! Lo!
A league of desolate marsh-land, with its lush,
Hot grasses in a noisome, tide-left bed,
And faint, warm airs, that nestle in the hush,
Like whispers round the body of the dead!

1. On Pressing Some Flowers
2. Sonnets. 14. Are These Wild Thoughts, Thus Fettered in My Rhymes
3. The Rosebuds
4. Hymn Sung at the Consecration of Magnolia Cemetery, Charleston, S.C.
5. A Common Thought

Распечатать (Print)

Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1212

Последние стихотворения

To English version