Henry David Thoreau (Генри Дэвид Торо)

* * *

Indeed indeed, I cannot tell,
Though I ponder on it well,
Which were easier to state,
All my love or all my hate.
Surely, surely, thou wilt trust me
When I say thou dost disgust me.
O, I hate thee with a hate
That would fain annihilate;
Yet sometimes against my will,
My dear friend, I love thee still.
It were treason to our love,
And a sin to God above,
One iota to abate
Of a pure impartial hate.

1. The Aurora of Guido
2. True Kindness
3. The Atlantides
4. Sic Vita
5. What's the Railroad to Me?

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1896

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