Francis Bret Harte (Фрэнсис Брет Гарт)

Lone Mountain

(CEMETERY, SAN FRANCISCO)

This is that hill of awe
That Persian Sindbad saw,--
    The mount magnetic;
And on its seaward face,
Scattered along its base,
    The wrecks prophetic.

Here come the argosies
Blown by each idle breeze,
    To and fro shifting;
Yet to the hill of Fate
All drawing, soon or late,--
    Day by day drifting;

Drifting forever here
Barks that for many a year
    Braved wind and weather;
Shallops but yesterday
Launched on yon shining bay,--
    Drawn all together.

This is the end of all:
Sun thyself by the wall,
    O poorer Hindbad!
Envy not Sindbad’s fame:
Here come alike the same
    Hindbad and Sindbad.

1. The Lost Galleon
2. ”Cicely”
3. Thompson of Angels
4. Jack of the Tules
5. On William Francis Bartlett

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1814

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