Amy Lowell (Эми Лоуэлл)

Aftermath

I learnt to write to you in happier days,
And every letter was a piece I chipped
From off my heart, a fragment newly clipped
From the mosaic of life; its blues and grays,
Its throbbing reds, I gave to earn your praise.
To make a pavement for your feet I stripped
My soul for you to walk upon, and slipped
Beneath your steps to soften all your ways.
But now my letters are like blossoms pale
We strew upon a grave with hopeless tears.
I ask no recompense, I shall not fail
Although you do not heed; the long, sad years
Still pass, and still I scatter flowers frail,
And whisper words of love which no one hears.

1. On Carpaccio’s Picture: The Dream of St. Ursula
2. Teatro Bambino. Dublin, N. H.
3. Reaping
4. Frankincense and Myrrh
5. Red Slippers

Henry Longfellow (Генри Лонгфелло) Aftermath ("WHEN the summer fields are mown")

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