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Edna St. Vincent Millay (Эдна Сент-Винсент Миллей) * * * Not even my pride shall suffer much; Not even my pride at all, maybe, If this ill-timed, intemperate clutch Be loosed by you and not by me, Will suffer; I have been so true A vestal to that only pride Wet wood cannot extinguish, nor Sand, nor its embers scattered, for, See all these years, it has not died. And if indeed, as I dare think, You cannot push this patient flame, By any breath your lungs could store, Even for a moment to the floor To crawl there, even for a moment crawl, What can you mix for me to drink That shall deflect me? What you do Is either malice, crude defense Of ego, or indifference: I know these things as well as you; You do not dazzle me at all— Some love, and some simplicity, Might well have been the death of me— Edna St. Vincent Millay's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1333 |
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