Amy Lowell (Эми Лоуэлл)

Aftermath

I learnt to write to you in happier days,
And every letter was a piece I chipped
From off my heart, a fragment newly clipped
From the mosaic of life; its blues and grays,
Its throbbing reds, I gave to earn your praise.
To make a pavement for your feet I stripped
My soul for you to walk upon, and slipped
Beneath your steps to soften all your ways.
But now my letters are like blossoms pale
We strew upon a grave with hopeless tears.
I ask no recompense, I shall not fail
Although you do not heed; the long, sad years
Still pass, and still I scatter flowers frail,
And whisper words of love which no one hears.

1. Epitaph of a Young Poet Who Died Before Having Achieved Success
2. On Carpaccio’s Picture: The Dream of St. Ursula
3. The Cyclists
4. The Captured Goddess
5. Lead Soldiers

Sylvia Plath (Сильвия Плат) Aftermath ("Compelled by calamity's magnet")

Распечатать (To print)

Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1855

Последние стихотворения

To English version