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


The Little Hill


Oh, here the air is sweet and still,
And soft’s the grass to lie on;
And far away’s the little hill
They took for Christ to die on.

And there’s a hill across the brook,
And down the brook’s another;
But, oh, the little hill they took,—
I think I am its mother!

The moon that saw Gethsemane,
I watch it rise and set:
It has so many things to see,
They help it to forget.

But little hills that sit at home
So many hundred years,
Remember Greece, remember Rome,
Remember Mary’s tears.

And far away in Palestine,
Sadder than any other,
Grieves still the hill that I call mine,—
I think I am its mother!



Edna St. Vincent Millay's other poems:
  1. Renascence
  2. The True Encounter
  3. The Leaf and the Tree
  4. Second Fig
  5. Sonnets 04: Only Until This Cigarette Is Ended


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