Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Генри Уодсворт Лонгфелло)

Jugurtha

How cold are thy baths, Apollo!
  Cried the African monarch, the splendid,
As down to his death in the hollow
  Dark dungeons of Rome he descended,
  Uncrowned, unthroned, unattended;
How cold are thy baths, Apollo! 

How cold are thy baths, Apollo!
  Cried the Poet, unknown, unbefriended,
As the vision, that lured him to follow,
  With the mist and the darkness blended,
  And the dream of his life was ended;
How cold are thy baths, Apollo! 

1. The Occultation of Orion
2. To an Old Danish Song-Book
3. The Bridge
4. President Garfield
5. Burial of the Minnisink

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1805

Последние стихотворения

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