George Meredith (Джордж Мередит)

Modern Love. Sonnet 22. What May the Woman Labour to Confess?

What may the woman labour to confess?
There is about her mouth a nervous twitch.
'Tis something to be told, or hidden: -- which?
I get a glimpse of hell in this mild guess.
She has desires of touch, as if to feel
That all the household things are things she knew.
She stops before the glass. What sight in view?
A face that seems the latest to reveal!
For she turns from it hastily, and tossed
Irresolute, steals shadow-like to where
I stand; and wavering pale before me there,
Her tears fall still as oak-leaves after frost.
She will not speak. I will not ask. We are
League-sundered by the silent gulf between.
You burly lovers on the village green,
Yours is a lower, and a happier star!

1. A Ballad of Past Meridian
2. At the Funeral
3. Modern Love. Sonnet 27. Distraction is the Panacea, Sir!
4. Modern Love. Sonnet 8. Yet it was Plain She Struggled, and that Salt
5. King Harald's Trance

Распечатать (To print)

Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1643

Последние стихотворения

To English version