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Edna St.Vincent Millay

Second April

  • Enya Almanzaцитирует3 года назад
    I looked in my heart while the wild swans went over.

    And what did I see I had not seen before?

    Only a question less or a question more;

    Nothing to match the flight of wild birds flying.

    Tiresome heart, forever living and dying
  • Enya Almanzaцитирует3 года назад
    Oh, my beloved, have you thought of this:

    How in the years to come unscrupulous Time,

    More cruel than Death, will tear you from my kiss
  • Enya Almanzaцитирует3 года назад
    When I too long have looked upon your face,

    Wherein for me a brightness unobscured

    Save by the mists of brightness has its place,

    And terrible beauty not to be endured,

    I turn away reluctant from your light,

    And stand irresolute, a mind undone,

    A silly, dazzled thing deprived of sight

    From having looked too long upon the sun.

    Then is my daily life a narrow room

    In which a little while, uncertainly,

    Surrounded by impenetrable gloom,

    Among familiar things grown strange to me

    Making my way, I pause, and feel, and hark,

    Till I become accustomed to the dark.
  • Enya Almanzaцитирует3 года назад
    Once more into my arid days like dew,

    Like wind from an oasis, or the sound

    Of cold sweet water bubbling underground,

    A treacherous messenger, the thought of you

    Comes to destroy me; once more I renew

    Firm faith in your abundance, whom I found

    Long since to be but just one other mound

    Of sand, whereon no green thing ever grew.

    And once again, and wiser in no wise,

    I chase your colored phantom on the air,

    And sob and curse and fall and weep and rise

    And stumble pitifully on to where,

    Miserable and lost, with stinging eyes,

    Once more I clasp,—and there is nothing there.
  • Enya Almanzaцитирует3 года назад
    I will permit my memory to recall

    The vision of you, by all my dreams attended.

    And then adieu,—farewell!—the dream is done.

    Yours is a face of which I can forget

    The color and the features, every one,

    The words not ever, and the smiles not yet;

    But in your day this moment is the sun

    Upon a hill, after the sun has set.
  • Enya Almanzaцитирует3 года назад
    But your singing days are done;

    But the music of your talk

    Never shall the chemistry

    Of the secret earth restore.

    All your lovely words are spoken.

    Once the ivory box is broken,

    Beats the golden bird no more.
  • Enya Almanzaцитирует3 года назад
    Let them bury your big eyes

    In the secret earth securely,

    Your thin fingers, and your fair,

    Soft, indefinite-colored hair,—

    All of these in some way, surely,

    From the secret earth shall rise;

    Not for these I sit and stare,

    Broken and bereft completely;

    Your young flesh that sat so neatly

    On your little bones will sweetly

    Blossom in the air.

    But your voice,—never the rushing

    Of a river underground,

    Not the rising of the wind

    In the trees before the rain,

    Not the woodcock's watery call,

    Not the note the white-throat utters,

    Not the feet of children pushing

    Yellow leaves along the gutters

    In the blue and bitter fall,

    Shall content my musing mind

    For the beauty of that sound

    That in no new way at all

    Ever will be heard again.
  • Enya Almanzaцитирует3 года назад
    Then leans on me the weight of the year, and crushes

    My heart. I know that Beauty must ail and die,

    And will be born again,
  • Enya Almanzaцитирует3 года назад
    I should be happy, that am happy

    Never at all since I came here.

    I am too long away from water.

    I have a need of water near.
  • Enya Almanzaцитирует3 года назад
    Searching my heart for its true sorrow,

    This is the thing I find to be:

    That I am weary of words and people,

    Sick of the city, wanting the sea;

    Wanting the sticky, salty sweetness

    Of the strong wind and shattered spray;

    Wanting the loud sound and the soft sound

    Of the big surf that breaks all day
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