Wystan Hugh Auden (Уистен Хью Оден)

Woods

A well-kempt forest begs Our Lady’s grace;
Someone is not disgusted, or at least
Is laying bets upon the human race
Retaining enough decency to last;
The trees encountered on a country stroll
Reveal a lot about a country’s soul.
​
A small grove massacred to the last ash,
An oak with heart-rot, give away the show:
This great society is going to smash;
They cannot fool us with how fast they go,
How much they cost each other and the gods.
A culture is no better than its woods.

1. Though the Night Is Gone
2. Taller To-Day, We Remember Similar Evenings
3. We Too Had Known Golden Hours
4. Thanksgiving for a Habitat
5. We're Late

Распечатать (To print)

Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1742

Последние стихотворения

To English version