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

Here Is a Wound

Here is a wound that never will heal, I know,
Being wrought not of a dearness and a death,
But of a love turned ashes and the breath
Gone out of beauty; never again will grow
The grass on that scarred acre, though I sow
Young seed there yearly and the sky bequeath
Its friendly weathers down, far Underneath
Shall be such bitterness of an old woe.
That April should be shattered by a gust,
That August should be levelled by a rain,
I can endure, and that the lifted dust
Of man should settle to the earth again;
But that a dream can die, will be a thrust
Between my ribs forever of hot pain.

1. So She Came Back
2. When You, That at This Moment
3. Lord Archer, Death
4. Loving You Less Than Life
5. The Last White Sawdust

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1883

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