Mathilde Blind (1846-1891)

ON A FORSAKEN LARK'S NEST._

Lo, where left 'mid the sheaves, cut down by the iron-fanged reaper,

Eating its way as it clangs fast through the wavering wheat,

Lies the nest of a lark, whose little brown eggs could not keep her

As she, affrighted and scared, fled from the harvester's feet.

Ah, what a heartful of song that now will never awaken,

Closely packed in the shell, awaited love's fostering,

That should have quickened to life what, now a-cold and forsaken,

Never, enamoured of light, will meet the dawn on the wing.

Ah, what plans of joy, what raptures no mortal can measure,

Sweet as honey that's sealed in the cells of the honey-comb,

Would have ascended on high in jets of mellifluous pleasure,

Would have dropped from the clouds to nest in its gold-curtained home.

Poor, pathetic brown eggs! Oh, pulses that never will quicken!

Music mute in the shell that hath been turned to a tomb!

Many a sweet human singer, chilled and adversity-stricken,

Withers benumbed in a world his joy might have helped to illume.

Thomas Dylan

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Robert Frost

Aquainted With The Night

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain — and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.
I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
O luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.

Дата добавления: 2015-11-16