·
2 мин
Слушать

The Labourer In The Vineyard

Here are the ragged towers of

Stepped down the slope in terraces.

Through torn spaces between spearing

The lake glows with waters combed sideways,

And climbing up to reach the vine-spire

The mountain crests beyond the far

Paint their sky of glass with rocks and snow.

Lake below, mountains above,

Turrets of leaves, grape-triangles, the labourer stands.

His tanned trousers form a pedestal,

Coarse tree-trunk rising from the earth with

Peeled away at the navel to

Shining torso of sun-burnished

Breast of lyre, mouth coining song.

My ghostly, passing-by thoughts

Around his hilly shoulders, like those

Around those mountain peaks their transient scrolls.

He is the classic writing all this day,

Through his mere physical being

All into nakedness.

His

With outspread fingers is a star whose

Concentrate timeless

Onto the god descended in a

With hand unclenched against the lake's taut

Flesh filled with statue, as the grape with wine.

0
0
989
Подарок

Stephen Spender

Sir Stephen Harold Spender CBE (28 February 1909 – 16 July 1995) was an English poet, novelist and essayist whose work concentrated on themes of…
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.