Не прошло и года,
Sep. 7th, 2005 11:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
crivelliкак сие монументальное издание до меня добралось.
По такому поводу не могу не поделиться ещё одной цитатой из I liked the life I lived by Eveleigh Nash:
Her daughter, Lady Margaret Sackville, whom I first met when she was a very beautiful girl of twenty, was even then writing poems wich were published in good periodicals, and, I'm glad to see that some of them have been included in Anthologies, for this must be the high-water mark of a poet's ambitions.
p.61
По такому поводу не могу не поделиться ещё одной цитатой из I liked the life I lived by Eveleigh Nash:
Her daughter, Lady Margaret Sackville, whom I first met when she was a very beautiful girl of twenty, was even then writing poems wich were published in good periodicals, and, I'm glad to see that some of them have been included in Anthologies, for this must be the high-water mark of a poet's ambitions.
p.61
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no subject
Date: 2005-09-07 11:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-09-08 02:17 pm (UTC)Меня простодушие Нэша тронуло.
Она из семейства знаменитой Виты Саквилль-Вест.
no subject
Date: 2005-09-08 02:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-09-08 02:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-09-08 03:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-09-08 05:14 pm (UTC)А вот и стихи:
Date: 2005-09-08 02:30 pm (UTC)Before the Altar of the world in flower,
Upon whose steps thy creatures kneel in line,
We do beseech Thee in this wild Spring hour,
Grant us, O Lord, thy wine. But not this wine.
Helpless, we, praying by Thy shimmering seas,
Beside Thy fields, whence all the world is fed,
Thy little children clinging about Thy knees,
Cry: 'Grant us, Lord, Thy bread!' But not this bread.
This wine of awful sacrifice outpoured;
This bread of life -- of human lives. The Press
Is overflowing, the Wine-Press of the Lord! . .
Yet doth he tread the foamings no less.
These stricken lands! The green time of the year
Has found them wasted by a purple flood,
Sodden and wasted everywhere, everywhere; --
Not all our tears may cleanse them from that blood.
A Memory
There was no sound at all, no crying in the village,
Nothing you would count as sound, that is, after the shells;
Only behind a wall the low sobbing of women,
The creaking of a door, a lost dog-nothing else.
Silence which might be felt, no pity in the silence,
Horrible, soft like blood, down all the blood-stained ways;
In the middle of the street two corpses lie unburied,
And a bayoneted woman stares in the market-place.
Humble and ruined folk-for these no pride of conquest,
Their only prayer: "O Lord, give us our daily bread!"
Not by the battle fires, the shrapnel are we haunted;
Who shall deliver us from the memory of these dead?
Re: А вот и стихи:
Date: 2005-09-08 02:48 pm (UTC)интресное издание
Date: 2005-09-08 12:40 am (UTC)Re: интресное издание
Date: 2005-09-08 02:18 pm (UTC)