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Arthur Davison Ficke (Артур Дэвисон Фикке) * * * Fate, with devoted and incessant care, Has showered grotesqueness round us day by day. If we turn grave, a hurdy-gurdy's air Is sure to rasp across the words we say. If we stand tense on brink of perilous choices, 'Tis never where Miltonic headlands loom, But mid the sound of comic-opera voices Or the cheap blaze of some hair-dresser's room. Heaven knows what moonlit turrets, hazed in bliss Saw Launcelot and night and Guenivere! -- Or from the cliffs of what great sea-abyss Tristan and Iseult watched their doom draw near. ... I only know our first impassioned kiss Was in your cellar, rummaging for beer. ... Arthur Davison Ficke's other poems:
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