Walt Whitman (Уолт Уитмен)

Leaves of Grass. 24. Autumn Rivulets. 4. Old Ireland

Far hence amid an isle of wondrous beauty,
Crouching over a grave an ancient sorrowful mother,
Once a queen, now lean and tatter'd seated on the ground,
Her old white hair drooping dishevel'd round her shoulders,
At her feet fallen an unused royal harp,
Long silent, she too long silent, mourning her shrouded hope and heir,
Of all the earth her heart most full of sorrow because most full of love.

Yet a word ancient mother,
You need crouch there no longer on the cold ground with forehead
      between your knees,
O you need not sit there veil'd in your old white hair so dishevel'd,
For know you the one you mourn is not in that grave,
It was an illusion, the son you love was not really dead,
The Lord is not dead, he is risen again young and strong in another country,
Even while you wept there by your fallen harp by the grave,
What you wept for was translated, pass'd from the grave,
The winds favor'd and the sea sail'd it,
And now with rosy and new blood,
Moves to-day in a new country.

1. Leaves of Grass. 20. By the Roadside. 28. Offerings
2. Leaves of Grass. 32. From Noon to Starry Night. 19. What Best I See in Thee
3. Leaves of Grass. 34. Sands at Seventy. 10. Queries to My Seventieth Year
4. Leaves of Grass. 34. Sands at Seventy. 31. Yonnondio
5. Leaves of Grass. 34. Sands at Seventy. 43. The Dying Veteran

Распечатать (Print)

Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1310

Последние стихотворения

To English version