Louise Imogen Guiney (Луиза Имоджен Гвини)

Emily Brontë

What sacramental hurt that brings
The terror of the truth of things,
Had changed thee? Secret be it yet.
’Twas thine, upon a headland set,
To view no isles of man’s delight
With lyric foam in rainbow flight,
But all a-swing, a-gleam, mid slow uproar,
Black sea, and curved uncouth sea-bitten shore.

1. The Chantry
2. The Old Dial of Corpus
3. Ad Antiquarium
4. Martyrs’ Memorial
5. In a London Street

Распечатать (Print)

Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1158

Последние стихотворения

To English version