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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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Spring Offensive [unfinished]
Halted against the shade of a last hill, They fed, and lying easy, were at And, finding comfortable chests and knees, Carelessly slept
The Kind Ghosts
She sleeps on soft, last breaths; but no ghost Out of the stillness of her palace wall, Her wall of boys on boys and dooms on dooms She dreams of golden gardens and sweet glooms,
At A Calvary Near The Ancre
One ever hangs where shelled roads part In this war He too lost a limb, But His disciples hide apart; And now the Soldiers bear with Him
Mental Cases
Who are these Why sit they here in twilight Wherefore rock they, purgatorial shadows, Drooping tongues from jays that slob their relish,
