Wilfred Owen (Уилфред Оуэн)

1914

War broke: and now the Winter of the world
With perishing great darkness closes in.
The foul tornado, centred at Berlin,
Is over all the width of Europe whirled,
Rending the sails of progress. Rent or furled
Are all Art's ensigns. Verse wails. Now begin
Famines of thought and feeling. Love's wine's thin.
The grain of human Autumn rots, down-hurled.

For after Spring had bloomed in early Greece,
And Summer blazed her glory out with Rome,
An Autumn softly fell, a harvest home,
A slow grand age, and rich with all increase.
But now, for us, wild Winter, and the need
Of sowings for new Spring, and blood for seed. 

1. On My Songs
2. The Chances
3. I Saw His Round Mouth's Crimson
4. The Roads Also
5. As Bronze May Be Much Beautified

Распечатать (Print)

Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1884

Последние стихотворения

To English version