George Meredith (Джордж Мередит)

At the Close

To Thee, dear God of Mercy, both appeal,
Who straightway sound the call to arms. Thou know'st;
And that black spot in each embattled host,
Spring of the blood-stream, later wilt reveal.
Now is it red artillery and white steel;
Till on a day will ring the victor's boast,
That 'tis Thy chosen towers uppermost,
Where Thy rejected grovels under heel.
So in all times of man's descent insane
To brute, did strength and craft combining strike,
Even as a God of Armies, his fell blow.
But at the close he entered Thy domain,
Dear God of Mercy, and if lion-like
He tore the fall'n, the Eternal was his Foe. 

1. Modern Love. Sonnet 38. Give to Imagination
2. Empdeocles
3. Unknown Fair Faces
4. My Theme
5. Modern Love. Sonnet 40. I Bade my Lady Think what She Might Mean

Ina Coolbrith (Ина Кулбрит) At the Close ("YOUTH, that is sweetest, lies still, lies chill in death!")

Распечатать (Print)

Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1266

Последние стихотворения

To English version