2 мин
Слушать

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,

Death took him by the heart.

There heaved a

Of the aborted life within him leaping,

Then chest and sleepy arms once more fell slack.

And soon the slow, stray blood came

From the intruding lead, like ants on track.

Whether his deeper sleep lie shaded by the

Of great wings, and the thoughts that hung the stars,

High-pillowed on calm pillows of God's making,

Above these clouds, these rains, these sleets of lead,

And these winds' scimitars,-Or whether yet his thin and sodden

Confuses more and more with the low mould,

His hair being one with the grey

Of finished fields, and wire-scrags rusty-old,

Who knows?

Who hopes?

Who troubles?

Let it pass!

He sleeps.

He sleeps less tremulous, less cold,

Than we who wake, and waking say Alas!

0
0
16
Подарок

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…

Другие работы автора

Комментарии
Вам нужно войти , чтобы оставить комментарий

Сегодня читают

Ryfma
Ryfma - это социальная сеть для публикации книг, стихов и прозы, для общения писателей и читателей. Публикуй стихи и прозу бесплатно.