Madison Julius Cawein (Мэдисон Джулиус Кавейн)

The Woman

With her fair face she made my heaven,
Beneath whose stars and moon and sun
I worshiped, praying, having striven,
For wealth through which she might be won.
And yet she had no soul: A woman
As fair and cruel as a god;
Who played with hearts as nothing human,
And tossed them by and on them trod.
She killed a soul; she did it nightly;
Luring it forth from peace and prayer,
To strangle it, and laughing lightly,
Cast it into the gutter there.
And yet, not for a purer vision
Would I exchange; or Paradise
Possess instead of Hell, my prison,
Where burns the passion of her eyes.

1. Masked
2. The Village Miser
3. To a Wind-Flower
4. Dawn in the Alleghanies
5. He Who Loves

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1909

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