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Слушать(AI)Song Of Songs
Sing me at morn but only with your laugh;
Even as Spring that laugheth into leaf;
Even as Love that laugheth after Life.
Sing me but only with your speech all day,
As voluble leaflets do; let viols die;
The least word of your lips is melody!
Sing me at eve but only your sigh!
Like lifting seas it solaceth; breathe so,
Slowly and low, the sense that no songs say.
Sing me at midnight with your murmurous heart!
Let youth's immortal-moaning chord be
Throbbing through you, and sobbing, unsubdued.
Wilfred Owen
Wilfred Edward Salter Owen, MC (18 March 1893 – 4 November 1918) was an English poet and soldier. He was one of the leading poets of the First W
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I know The Music unfinished
All sounds have been as music to my listening: Pacific lamentations of slow bells, The crunch of boots on blue snow rosy-glistening, Shuffle of autumn leaves; and all farewells:
Asleep
Under his helmet, up against his pack, After so many days of work and waking, Sleep took him by the brow and laid him back There, in the happy no-time of his sleeping,
The Sentry
We'd found an old Boche dug-out, and he knew, And gave us hell, for shell on frantic Hammered on top, but never quite burst through Rain, guttering down in waterfalls of slime,
Sonnet On Seeing A Piece Of Our Heavy Artillery Brought Into Action
Be slowly lifted up, thou long black arm, Great Gun towering towards Heaven, about to curse; Sway steep against them, and for years Huge imprecations like a blasting charm
