Читать книгу Poems. Volume 2 - George Meredith - Страница 23

’Tis true the wisdom that my mind exacts

Through contemplation from a heart unbent

By many tempests may be stained and rent:

The summer flies it mightily attracts.

Yet they seem choicer than your sons of facts,

Which scarce give breathing of the sty’s content

For their diurnal carnal nourishment:

Which treat with Nature in official pacts.

The deader body Nature could proclaim.

Much life have neither.  Let the heavens of wrath

Rattle, then both scud scattering to froth.

But during calms the flies of idle aim

Less put the spirit out, less baffle thirst

For light than swinish grunters, blest or curst.