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Richard Doddridge Blackmore (Ричард Додридж Блэкмор) To My Pen I Thou feeble implement of mind, Wherewith she strove to scrawl her name; But, like a mitcher, left behind No signature, no stroke, no claim, No hint that she hath pined— Shall ever come a stronger time, When thou shalt be a tool of skill, And steadfast purpose, to fulfil A higher task than rhyme? II Thou puny instrument of soul, Wherewith she labours to impart Her efforts at some arduous goal; But fails to bring thy coarser art Beneath a fine control— Shall ever come a fairer day, When thou shalt be a buoyant plume, To soar, where clearer suns illume, And fresher breezes play? Richard Doddridge Blackmore's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1465 |
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