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Слушать(AI)Improvisations Light And Snow 06
It is now two hours since I left you,
And the perfume of your hands is still on my hands.
And though since thenI have looked at the stars, walked in the cold blue streets,
And heard the dead leaves blowing over the
Under the trees,
I still remember the sound of your laughter.
How will it be, lady, when there is none left to remember
Even as long as this?
Will the dust braid your hair?
Conrad Potter Aiken
Conrad Potter Aiken (August 5, 1889 – August 17, 1973) was an American writer and poet, honored with a Pulitzer Prize, a National Book Award, an
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Improvisations Light And Snow 04
On the day when my uncle and I drove to the cemetery, Rain rattled on the roof of the carriage; And talkng constrainedly of this and We refrained from looking at the child’s coffin on the seat before us
The Room
Through that window—all else being Except itself and me—I saw the Of darkness against darkness Within the
The Carver
See, as the carver carves a rose, A wing, a toad, a serpent's eye, In cruel granite, to disclose The soft things that in hardness lie, So this one, taking up his heart,
The Dance Of Life
Gracious and lovable and sweet, She made his jaded pulses beat, And made the glare of streets grow dim And life more soft and hushed for him… Over her shoulder now she smiled Trustfully to him, like a child, The while her fingers gayly moved ...
