Robert William Service (Роберт Уильям Сервис)

Agnostic

The chapel looms against the sky,
Above the vine-clad shelves,
And as the peasants pass it by
They cross themselves.
But I alone, I grieve to state,
Lack sentiment divine:
A citified sophisticate,
I make no sign.

Their gesture may a habit be,
Mechanic in a sense,
Yet somehow it awakes in me
Strange reverence.
And though from ignorance it stem,
Somehow I deeply grieve,
And wish down in my heart like them
I could believe.

Suppose a cottage I should buy,
And little patch of vine,
With pure and humble spirit I
Might make the Sign.
Aye, though I godless way I go,
And sceptic in my trend,
A faith in something I don't know
Might save me in the end.

1. The Rhyme of the Remittance Man
2. My Ancestors
3. The Lure of Little Voices
4. The Cremation of Sam Mcgee
5. Bessie's Boil

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1777

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