Emily Elizabeth Dickinson (Эмили Дикинсон)

* * *

Victory comes late,
And is held low to freezing lips
Too rapt with frost
To take it.
How sweet it would have tasted,
Just a drop!
Was God so economical?
His table 's spread too high for us
Unless we dine on tip-toe.
Crumbs fit such little mouths,
Cherries suit robins;
The eagle's golden breakfast
Strangles them.
God keeps his oath to sparrows,
Who of little love
Know how to starve!

1. Fire
2. Lost Faith
3. Ventures
4. Disenchantment
5. I Have a King Who Does Not Speak

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1708

Последние стихотворения

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