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Главная • Биографии • Стихи по темам • Случайное стихотворение • Переводчики • Ссылки • Антологии Рейтинг поэтов • Рейтинг стихотворений |
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Archibald MacLeish (Арчибальд Маклиш) The Word How shall we call this love of ours? What word Marked from the drinking of another's mouth And streaked with slaking the ancestral drouth And stained with syrups offered to the Lord— What word will hold this wonder: where's the bowl Unused till now and never used for this, Fit for the liquor of our avarice, Spacious to brim this vintage of the soul— Is there no word, no perfect word but one? Is there no cup but this wherefrom have sipped Sad men and earthy since the morning's sun? Must we then taste their sorrow where they lipped The edge of lust and take our passion up Bitter already from the common cup? Archibald MacLeish's other poems: Poems of another poets with the same name (Стихотворения других поэтов с таким же названием): Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1600 |
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Английская поэзия | ||