Edna St. Vincent Millay (Эдна Сент-Винсент Миллей)

* * *

Let you not say of me when I am old,
In pretty worship of my withered hands
Forgetting who I am, and how the sands
Of such a life as mine run red and gold
Even to the ultimate sifting dust, ”Behold,
Here walketh passionless age!”—for there expands
A curious superstition in these lands,
And by its leave some weightless tales are told.

In me no lenten wicks watch out the night;
I am the booth where Folly holds her fair;
Impious no less in ruin than in strength,
When I lie crumbled to the earth at length,
Let you not say, ”Upon this reverend site
The righteous groaned and beat their breasts in prayer.”

1. Not Over-Kind nor Over-Quick
2. The Cairn
3. When You, That at This Moment
4. The Last White Sawdust
5. Tenderly, in Those Times

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1807

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