Искусствоед
Trumbull Stickney
Be still. The Hanging Gardens were a dream
That over Persians roses flew to kiss
The Curled lashes of the Semiramis.
Troy never was, nor green Skamander stream.
Provence and Troubadour are merest lies.
The glorious hair of Venice was a beam
Made within Titian’s eye. The sunsets seem,
The world is very old and nothing is.
Be still. Thou foolish thing, thou canst not wake,
Nor thy tears wedge thy soldered lids apart,
But patter in the darkness of thy heart.
Thy brain is plagued. Thou art a frightened owl
Blind with the light of life thou’ldst not forsake,
And Error loves and nourishes thy soul.
(from “Dramatic Verses” 1902)
Be still. The Hanging Gardens were a dream
That over Persians roses flew to kiss
The Curled lashes of the Semiramis.
Troy never was, nor green Skamander stream.
Provence and Troubadour are merest lies.
The glorious hair of Venice was a beam
Made within Titian’s eye. The sunsets seem,
The world is very old and nothing is.
Be still. Thou foolish thing, thou canst not wake,
Nor thy tears wedge thy soldered lids apart,
But patter in the darkness of thy heart.
Thy brain is plagued. Thou art a frightened owl
Blind with the light of life thou’ldst not forsake,
And Error loves and nourishes thy soul.
(from “Dramatic Verses” 1902)