Читать книгу Poems. Volume 2 - George Meredith - Страница 22

Of me and of my theme think what thou wilt:

The song of gladness one straight bolt can check.

But I have never stood at Fortune’s beck:

Were she and her light crew to run atilt

At my poor holding little would be spilt;

Small were the praise for singing o’er that wreck.

Who courts her dooms to strife his bended neck;

He grasps a blade, not always by the hilt.

Nathless she strikes at random, can be fell

With other than those votaries she deals

The black or brilliant from her thunder-rift.

I say but that this love of Earth reveals

A soul beside our own to quicken, quell,

Irradiate, and through ruinous floods uplift.