Английская поэзия


ГлавнаяБиографииСтихи по темамСлучайное стихотворениеПереводчикиСсылкиАнтологии
Рейтинг поэтовРейтинг стихотворений

Countee Cullen (Каунти Каллен)


Yet Do I Marvel


I doubt not God is good, well-meaning, kind
And did He stoop to quibble could tell why
The little buried mole continues blind,
Why flesh that mirrors Him must some day die,
Make plain the reason tortured Tantalus
Is baited by the fickle fruit, declare
If merely brute caprice dooms Sisyphus
To struggle up a never-ending stair.
Inscrutable His ways are, and immune
To catechism by a mind too strewn
With petty cares to slightly understand
What awful brain compels His awful hand.
Yet do I marvel at this curious thing:
To make a poet black, and bid him sing!



Countee Cullen's other poems:
  1. That Bright Chimeric Beast
  2. Youth Sings a Song of Rosebuds
  3. Simon the Cyrenian Speaks
  4. The Shroud of Color
  5. Saturday’s Child


Распечатать стихотворение. Poem to print Распечатать (Print)

Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1245


Последние стихотворения


To English version


Рейтинг@Mail.ru

Английская поэзия. Адрес для связи eng-poetry.ru@yandex.ru