Walt Whitman (Уолт Уитмен)

Leaves of Grass. 35. Good-Bye My Fancy. 7. The Pallid Wreath

Somehow I cannot let it go yet, funeral though it is,
Let it remain back there on its nail suspended,
With pink, blue, yellow, all blanch'd, and the white now gray and ashy,
One wither'd rose put years ago for thee, dear friend;
But I do not forget thee. Hast thou then faded?
Is the odor exhaled? Are the colors, vitalities, dead?
No, while memories subtly play—the past vivid as ever;
For but last night I woke, and in that spectral ring saw thee,
Thy smile, eyes, face, calm, silent, loving as ever:
So let the wreath hang still awhile within my eye-reach,
It is not yet dead to me, nor even pallid.

1. Leaves of Grass. 34. Sands at Seventy. 10. Queries to My Seventieth Year
2. Leaves of Grass. 35. Good-Bye My Fancy. 25. “The Rounded Catalogue Divine Complete”
3. Leaves of Grass. 20. By the Roadside. 28. Offerings
4. Leaves of Grass. 32. From Noon to Starry Night. 19. What Best I See in Thee
5. Leaves of Grass. 34. Sands at Seventy. 11. The Wallabout Martyrs

Распечатать (Print)

Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1304

Последние стихотворения

To English version