2 мин
Слушать

Georgia Dusk

The sky, lazily disdaining to

The setting sun, too indolent to holdA lengthened tournament for flashing gold,

Passively darkens for night's barbeque,

A feast of moon and men and barking hounds.

An orgy for some genius of the

With blood-hot eyes and cane-lipped scented mouth,

Surprised in making folk-songs from soul sounds.

The sawmill blows its whistle, buzz-saws stop,

And silence breaks the bud of knoll and hill,

Soft settling pollen where plowed lands

Their early promise of a bumper crop.

Smoke from the pyramidal sawdust

Curls up, blue ghosts of trees, tarrying

Where only chips and stumps are left to

The solid proof of former domicile.

Meanwhile, the men, with vestiges of pomp,

Race memories of king and caravan,

High-priests, an ostrich, and a juju-man,

Go singing through the footpaths of the swamp.

Their voices rise…the pine trees are guitars,

Strumming, pine-needles fall like sheets of rain..

Their voices rise…the chorus of the

Is caroling a vesper to the stars..

O singers, resinous and soft your

Above the sacred whisper of the pines,

Give virgin lips to cornfield concubines,

Being dreams of Christ to dusky cane-lipped throngs.

0
0
38
Подарок

Jean Toomer

Jean Toomer (born Nathan Pinchback Toomer, December 26, 1894 – March 30, 1967) was an American poet and novelist commonly associated with the Ha…

Другие работы автора

Комментарии
Вам нужно войти , чтобы оставить комментарий

Сегодня читают

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