(Untitled)

[avrukinesku]

Поделитесь по-братски любимым англоязычным стихотвореньицем, т.е. не очень большим. Знаю кучку наизусь, но решил, что лучше знать, к примеру, сто. И это совсем другое качество жизни. Приступил к выбору. Возможно, ваш любимец пробьется и поступит в институт моего сознания. И будем мы одной крови, ты и я. Но только целиком, не ссылками

Comments

[platonicus]

FLOWERS

- No knowlege rightly understood
can deprive us of the mirth of flower
(Edward Dahlberg)

No thing less than one thing
or more -

no sun
but sun -

or water
but wetness found -

What truth is it
that makes men so miserable?

Days we die
are particular -

This life cannot be lived
apart from what it must forgive.

(Robert Creely)

[aagg]

dickinson

To One denied the drink
To tell what Water is
Would be acuter, would it not
Than letting Him surmise?

To lead Him to the Well
And let Him hear it drip
Remind Him, would it not, somewhat
Of His condemned lip?

[piony]

I died for beauty, but was scarce
Adjusted in the tomb,
When one who died for truth was lain
In an adjoining room.

He questioned softly why I failed?
"For beauty," I replied.
"And I for truth - the two are one;
We brethren are," he said.

And so, as kinsmen met a-night,
We talked between the rooms,
Until the moss had reached our lips,
And covered up our names.

Emily Dickinson.

[mariasokolova]

Девачковое пралюбовь.

Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand
Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore
Alone upon the threshold of my door
Of individual life, I shall command
The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand
Serenely in the sunshine as before,
Without the sense of that which I forbore -
Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land
Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine
With pulses that beat double. What I do
And what I dream include thee, as the wine
Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue
God for myself, He hears that name of thine,
And sees within my eyes the tears of two.

[etta_place]

I had a dove and the sweet dove died;
And I have thought it died of grieving:
O, what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied,
With a silken thread of my own hand's weaving;