Amy Lowell (Эми Лоуэлл)

The Cyclists

Spread on the roadway,
With open-blown jackets,
Like black, soaring pinions,
They swoop down the hillside,
The Cyclists.
Seeming dark-plumaged
Birds, after carrion,
Careening and circling,
Over the dying
Of England.
She lies with her bosom
Beneath them, no longer
The Dominant Mother,
The Virile -- but rotting
Before time.
The smell of her, tainted,
Has bitten their nostrils.
Exultant they hover,
And shadow the sun with
Foreboding.

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

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1745

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