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Arthur Davison Ficke (Артур Дэвисон Фикке) Portrait of an Old Woman She limps with halting painful pace, Stops, wavers and creeps on again; Peers up with dim and questioning face, Void of desire or doubt or pain. Her cheeks hang gray in waxen folds Wherein there stirs no blood at all. A hand, like bundled cornstalks, holds The tatters of a faded shawl. Where was a breast, sunk bones she clasps; A knot jerks where were woman-hips; A ropy throat sends writhing gasps Up to the tight line of her lips. Here strong the city's pomp is poured… She stands, unhuman, bleak, aghast: An empty temple of the Lord From which the jocund Lord has passed. He has builded him another house, Whenceforth his flame, renewed and bright, Shines stark upon these weathered brows Abandoned to the final night. Arthur Davison Ficke's other poems:
Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1215 |
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