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Интересный и захватывающий антиутопический Роман. Интересная анаграмма - Аркадий Ренн - Айн Рэнд, видимо автор почерпнул антиутопичный настрой из ее п...
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Poems, 1908-1919
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It knows no governance
Of virtue or sin;
From nothing of my achieving
Shall it enrichment take,
And the glooms of my unworthiness
It will not forsake.
A SABBATH DAY
IN FIVE WATCHES
I. MORNING
(TO M. C.)
You were three men and women two,
And well I loved you, all of you,
And well we kept the Sabbath day.
The bells called out of Malvern town,
But never bell could call us down
As we went up the hill away.
Was it a thousand years ago
Or yesterday that men were so
Zealous of creed and argument?
Here wind is brother to the rain,
And the hills laugh upon the plain,
And the old brain-gotten feuds are spent.
Bring lusty laughter, lusty jest,
Bring each the song he names the best,
Bring eager thought and speech that’s keen,
Tell each his tale and tell it out,
The only shame be prudent doubt,
Bring bodies where the lust is clean.
II. FULL DAY
(TO K. D.)
We moved along the gravelled way
Between the laurels and the yews,
Some touch of old enchantment lay
About us, some remembered news
Of men who rode among the trees
With burning dreams of Camelot,
Whose names are beauty’s litanies,
As Galahad and Launcelot.
We looked along the vaulted gloom
Of boughs unstripped of winter’s bane,
As for some pride of scarf and plume
And painted shield and broidered rein,
And through the cloven laurel walls
We searched the darkling pines and pale
Beech-boles and woodbine coronals,
As for the passing of the Grail.
But Launcelot no travel keeps,
For brother Launcelot is dead,
And brother Galahad he sleeps
This long while in his quiet bed,
And we are all the knights that pass
Among the yews and laurels now.
They are but fruit among the grass,
And we but fruit upon the bough.
No coloured blazon meets us here
Of all that courtly company;
Elaine is not, nor Guenevere,
The dream is but of dreams that die.
But yet the purple violet lies
Beside the golden daffodil,
And women strong of limb and wise
And fierce of blood are with us still.
And never through the woodland goes
The Grail of that forgotten quest,
But still about the woodland flows
The sap of God made manifest
In boughs that labour to their time,
And birds that gossip secret things,
And eager lips that seek to rhyme
The latest of a thousand springs.
III. DUSK
(TO E. S. V.)
We come from the laurels and daffodils
Down to the homestead under the fell,
We’ve gathered our hunger upon the hills,
And that is well.
Howbeit to-morrow gives or takes,
And leads to barren or flowering ways,
We’ve a linen cloth and wheaten cakes,
For which be praise.
Of virtue or sin;
From nothing of my achieving
Shall it enrichment take,
And the glooms of my unworthiness
It will not forsake.
A SABBATH DAY
IN FIVE WATCHES
I. MORNING
(TO M. C.)
You were three men and women two,
And well I loved you, all of you,
And well we kept the Sabbath day.
The bells called out of Malvern town,
But never bell could call us down
As we went up the hill away.
Was it a thousand years ago
Or yesterday that men were so
Zealous of creed and argument?
Here wind is brother to the rain,
And the hills laugh upon the plain,
And the old brain-gotten feuds are spent.
Bring lusty laughter, lusty jest,
Bring each the song he names the best,
Bring eager thought and speech that’s keen,
Tell each his tale and tell it out,
The only shame be prudent doubt,
Bring bodies where the lust is clean.
II. FULL DAY
(TO K. D.)
We moved along the gravelled way
Between the laurels and the yews,
Some touch of old enchantment lay
About us, some remembered news
Of men who rode among the trees
With burning dreams of Camelot,
Whose names are beauty’s litanies,
As Galahad and Launcelot.
We looked along the vaulted gloom
Of boughs unstripped of winter’s bane,
As for some pride of scarf and plume
And painted shield and broidered rein,
And through the cloven laurel walls
We searched the darkling pines and pale
Beech-boles and woodbine coronals,
As for the passing of the Grail.
But Launcelot no travel keeps,
For brother Launcelot is dead,
And brother Galahad he sleeps
This long while in his quiet bed,
And we are all the knights that pass
Among the yews and laurels now.
They are but fruit among the grass,
And we but fruit upon the bough.
No coloured blazon meets us here
Of all that courtly company;
Elaine is not, nor Guenevere,
The dream is but of dreams that die.
But yet the purple violet lies
Beside the golden daffodil,
And women strong of limb and wise
And fierce of blood are with us still.
And never through the woodland goes
The Grail of that forgotten quest,
But still about the woodland flows
The sap of God made manifest
In boughs that labour to their time,
And birds that gossip secret things,
And eager lips that seek to rhyme
The latest of a thousand springs.
III. DUSK
(TO E. S. V.)
We come from the laurels and daffodils
Down to the homestead under the fell,
We’ve gathered our hunger upon the hills,
And that is well.
Howbeit to-morrow gives or takes,
And leads to barren or flowering ways,
We’ve a linen cloth and wheaten cakes,
For which be praise.
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Интересный и захватывающий антиутопический Роман. Интересная анаграмма - Аркадий Ренн - Айн Рэнд, видимо автор почерпнул антиутопичный настрой из ее п...
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