Читать книгу Poems of Arthur Hugh Clough - Arthur Hugh Clough - Страница 40

Adam. These sacrificings, O my best beloved,

These rites and forms which you have taught our boys,

Which I nor practise nor can understand,

Will turn, I trust, to good; but I much fear.

Besides the superstitious search of signs

In merest accidents of earth and air,

They cause, I think, a sort of jealousy—

Ill-blood. Hark, now!

Eve. O God, whose cry is that?

Abel, where is my Abel?

Adam. Cain! what, Cain!