Harold Hart Crane (Харт Крейн)

Exile

My hands have not touched pleasure since your hands, —
No, — nor my lips freed laughter since 'farewell',
And with the day, distance again expands
Voiceless between us, as an uncoiled shell.

Yet, love endures, though starving and alone.
A dove's wings clung about my heart each night
With surging gentleness, and the blue stone
Set in the tryst-ring has but worn more bright.

1. Interior
2. Southern Cross
3. To Emily Dickinson
4. North Labrador
5. Passage

Conrad Aiken (Конрад Эйкен) Exile ("These hills are sandy. Trees are dwarfed here. Crows")

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1839

Последние стихотворения

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