1 мин
Слушать(AI)Sonnet Ypres
She was a city of patience; of proud name,
Dimmed by neglecting Time; of beauty and loss;
Of acquiescence in the creeping moss.
But on a sudden fierce destruction came Tigerishly pouncing: thunderbolt and flame Showered on her streets, to shatter them and toss Her ancient towers to ashes.
Riven across,
She rose, dead, into never-dying fame.
White against heavens of storm, a ghost, she is known To the world's ends.
The myriads of the brave Sleep round her.
Desolately glorified,
She, moon-like, draws her own far-moving tide Of sorrow and memory; toward her, each alone,
Glide the dark dreams that seek an English grave.
Robert Laurence Binyon
Robert Laurence Binyon, CH (10 August 1869 – 10 March 1943) was an English poet, dramatist and art scholar. Born in Lancaster, England, his pare
Комментарии
Вам нужно войти , чтобы оставить комментарий
Другие работы автора
Ypres
On the road to Ypres, on the long road, Marching strong, We'll sing a song of Ypres, of her glory And her wrong Proud rose her towers in the old time,
Evening Rain
What is lovelier than rain that lingers Falling through the western light The light that's red between my fingers Bathes infinite heaven's remotest height Whither will the cloud its darkness carry Whose trembling drops about me spill<br ...
The Zeppelin
Guns far and near Quick, sudden, angry, They startle the still street, Upturned faces appear,
In The High Leaves Of A Walnut
In the high leaves of a walnut, On the very topmost boughs, A boy that climbed the branching bole His cradled limbs would house On the airy bed that rocked him Long, idle hours he'd lie Alone with white clouds sailing The warm blue ...
