Читать книгу Enough Rope - Dorothy Parker - Страница 18

Table of Contents

The days will rally, wreathing

Their crazy tarantelle;

And you must go on breathing,

But I’ll be safe in hell.

Like January weather,

The years will bite and smart,

And pull your bones together

To wrap your chattering heart.

The pretty stuff you’re made of

Will crack and crease and dry.

The thing you are afraid of

Will look from every eye.

You will go faltering after

The bright, imperious line,

And split your throat on laughter,

And burn your eyes with brine.

You will be frail and musty

With peering, furtive head,

Whilst I am young and lusty

Among the roaring dead.