English Poetry. Walt Whitman. Leaves of Grass. 33. Songs of Parting. 5. Song at Sunset. Уолт Уитмен. Листья травы. 33. Из цикла «Песни расставаний». 5. Песнь на закате

Walt Whitman (Уолт Уитмен) Leaves of Grass. 33. Songs of Parting. 5. Song at Sunset Splendor of ended day floating and filling me, Hour prophetic, hour resuming the past, Inflating my throat, you divine average, You earth and life till the last ray gleams I sing. Open […]

English Poetry. Walt Whitman. Leaves of Grass. 32. From Noon to Starry Night. 14. Spain, 1873-74. Уолт Уитмен. Листья травы. 32. Из цикла «От полудня до звездной ночи». 14. Испания, 1873-1874

Walt Whitman (Уолт Уитмен) Leaves of Grass. 32. From Noon to Starry Night. 14. Spain, 1873-74 Out of the murk of heaviest clouds, Out of the feudal wrecks and heap’d-up skeletons of kings, Out of that old entire European debris, the shatter’d mummeries, Ruin’d cathedrals, crumble of palaces, […]

English Poetry. Thomas Gent. Widowed Love. Томас Гент.

Thomas Gent (Томас Гент) Widowed Love Tell me, chaste spirit! in yon orb of light, Which seems to wearied souls an ark of rest, So calm, so peaceful, so divinely bright— Solace of broken hearts, the mansion of the bless’d! Tell me, oh! tell me—shall I meet […]

English Poetry. Thomas Gent. Impromptu. Томас Гент.

Thomas Gent (Томас Гент) Impromptu To Oriana, on attending with her, as Sponsors, at a Christening Lady! who didst—with angel-look and smile, And the sweet lustre of those dear, dark eyes, Gracefully bend before the font of Christ, In humble adoration, faith, and prayer! Oh!—as the infant […]

English Poetry. Thomas Gent. Stanzas. Томас Гент.

Thomas Gent (Томас Гент) Stanzas Say, why is the stern eye averted with scorn Of the stoic who passes along? And why frowns the maid, else as mild as the morn. On the victim of falsehood and wrong? For the wretch sunk in sorrow, repentance, and shame, […]

English Poetry. Thomas Gent. Love. Томас Гент.

Thomas Gent (Томас Гент) Love Love!—what is love? a mere machine, a spring For freaks fantastic, a convenient thing, A point to which each scribbling wight most steer, Or vainly hope for food or favour here; A summer’s sigh; a winter’s wistful tale: A sound at which th’ […]