1 мин
Слушать(AI)My Soul
In the flame of the flickering fire The sins of my soul are few And the thoughts in my head are the thoughts of a bed With a solitary view.
But the eye of eternal consciousness Must blink as a bat blinks bright Or ever the thoughts in my head be stilled On the brink of eternal night.
Oh feed to the golden fish his egg Where he floats in his captive bowl,
To the cat his kind from the womb born blind,
And to the Lord my soul.
Stevie Smith
Florence Margaret Smith, known as Stevie Smith (20 September 1902 – 7 March 1971), was an English poet and novelist. She was awarded the Cholmon
Комментарии
Вам нужно войти , чтобы оставить комментарий
Другие работы автора
Infelice
Walking swiftly with a dreadful duchess, He smiled too briefly, his face was pale as sand, He jumped into a taxi when he saw me coming, Leaving my alone with a private meaning,
The Suburban Classes
There is far too much of the suburban classes Spiritually not geographically speaking They’re asses Menacing the greatness of our beloved England, they lie Propagating their kind in an eightroomed stye Now I have a plan which I will...
Not Waving but Drowning
Nobody heard him, the dead man, But still he lay moaning: I was much further out than you thought And not waving but drowning.
In My Dreams
In my dreams I am always saying goodbye and riding away, Whither and why I know not nor do I care And the parting is sweet and the parting over is sweeter, And sweetest of all is the night and the rushing air