Edna St. Vincent Millay (Эдна Сент-Винсент Миллей)

* * *

Let you not say of me when I am old,
In pretty worship of my withered hands
Forgetting who I am, and how the sands
Of such a life as mine run red and gold
Even to the ultimate sifting dust, ”Behold,
Here walketh passionless age!”—for there expands
A curious superstition in these lands,
And by its leave some weightless tales are told.

In me no lenten wicks watch out the night;
I am the booth where Folly holds her fair;
Impious no less in ruin than in strength,
When I lie crumbled to the earth at length,
Let you not say, ”Upon this reverend site
The righteous groaned and beat their breasts in prayer.”

1. To One Who Might Have Borne a Message
2. Siege
3. I Pray You If You Love Me
4. How Healthily Their Feet
5. The White Bark Writhed

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1750

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