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Dinah Maria Craik (Дина Мария Крейк) The Good of It A Cynic’s Song SOME men strut proudly, all purple and gold, Hiding queer deeds ‘neath a cloak of good fame; I creep along, braving hunger and cold, To keep my heart stainless as well as my name; So, so, where is the good of it? Some clothe bare Truth in fine garments of words, Fetter her free limbs with cumbersome state: With me, let me sit at the lordliest boards, ’I love’ means I love, and 'I hate’ means I hate, But, but, where is the good of it? Some have rich dainties and costly attire, Guests fluttering round them and duns at the door: I crouch alone at my plain board and fire, Enjoy what I pay for and scorn to have more. Yet, yet, where is the good of it? Some gather round them a phalanx of friends, Scattering affection like coin in a crowd; I keep my heart for the few that heaven sends, Where they’ll find their names writ when I lie in my shroud. Still, still, where is the good of it? Some toy with love, lightly come, lightly go, A blithe game at hearts, little worth, little cost:— I staked my whole soul on one desperate throw, A life 'gainst an hour’s sport. We played’ and I—lost Ha, ha, such was the good of it! Moral: Added On His Death-Bed TURN the Past’s mirror backward. Its shadows removed, The dim confused mass becomes softened, sublime: I have worked—I have felt—I have lived—I have loved, And each was a step towards the goal I now climb: Thou, God, Thou sawest the good of it. Dinah Maria Craik's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1212 |
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