Louise Imogen Guiney (Луиза Имоджен Гвини)

Heathenesse

NO round boy-satyr, racing from the mere,
Shakes on the mountain-lawn his dripping head
This many a May, your sister being dead,
Ye Christian folk! your sister great and dear.
To breathe her name, to think how sad-sincere
Was all her searching, straying, dreaming, dread,
How of her natural night was Plato bred,
A star to keep the ways of honor clear,
Who will not sigh for her? who can forget
Not only unto campèd Israel,
Nor martyr-maids that as a bridegroom met
The Roman lion’s roar, salvation fell?
To Him be most of praise that He is yet
Your God thro’ gods not inaccessible.

1. In a Ruin, after a Thunder-Storm
2. A Madonna of Domenico Ghirlandajo
3. T. W. P. 1819-1892
4. Friendship Broken
5. Tryste Noel

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1671

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