Elinor Wylie (Элинор Уайли)

* * *

The little beauty that I was allowed—
The lips new-cut and coloured by my sire,
The polished hair, the eyes' perceptive fire—
Has never been enough to make me proud:
For I have moved companioned by a cloud,
And lived indifferent to the blood's desire
Of temporal loveliness in vain attire:
My flesh was but a fresh-embroidered shroud.

Now do I grow indignant at the fate
Which made me so imperfect to compare
With your degree of noble and of fair;
Our elements are the farthest skies apart;
And I enjoin you, ere it is too late,
To stamp your superscription on my heart.

1. Poor Earth
2. Silver Filigree
3. One Person
4. The Pekingese
5. Death and the Maiden

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1774

Последние стихотворения

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