Rupert Chawner Brooke (Руперт Брук)

Paralysis

   For moveless limbs no pity I crave,
    That never were swift!  Still all I prize,
   Laughter and thought and friends, I have;
    No fool to heave luxurious sighs
   For the woods and hills that I never knew.
   The more excellent way's yet mine!  And you

   Flower-laden come to the clean white cell,
    And we talk as ever -- am I not the same?
   With our hearts we love, immutable,
    You without pity, I without shame.
   We talk as of old; as of old you go
   Out under the sky, and laughing, I know,

   Flit through the streets, your heart all me;
    Till you gain the world beyond the town.
   Then -- I fade from your heart, quietly;
    And your fleet steps quicken.  The strong down
   Smiles you welcome there; the woods that love you
   Close lovely and conquering arms above you.

   O ever-moving, O lithe and free!
    Fast in my linen prison I press
   On impassable bars, or emptily
    Laugh in my great loneliness.
   And still in the white neat bed I strive
   Most impotently against that gyve;
   Being less now than a thought, even,
   To you alone with your hills and heaven.

1. The True Beatitude
2. He Wonders Whether to Praise or to Blame Her
3. Thoughts on the Shape of the Human Body
4. The Way That Lovers Use
5. Lines Written in the Belief That the Ancient Roman Festival of the Dead Was Called Ambarvalia

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1896

Последние стихотворения

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