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Amy Lowell (Эми Лоуэлл)


The Cyclists


Spread on the roadway,
With open-blown jackets,
Like black, soaring pinions,
They swoop down the hillside,
The Cyclists.
Seeming dark-plumaged
Birds, after carrion,
Careening and circling,
Over the dying
Of England.
She lies with her bosom
Beneath them, no longer
The Dominant Mother,
The Virile -- but rotting
Before time.
The smell of her, tainted,
Has bitten their nostrils.
Exultant they hover,
And shadow the sun with
Foreboding.



Amy Lowell's other poems:
  1. Miscast II
  2. Suggested by the Cover of a Volume of Keats’s Poems
  3. Two Travellers in the Place Vendome
  4. The Exeter Road
  5. To Elizabeth Ward Perkins


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