Читать книгу Crowds - Gerald Stanley Lee - Страница 31

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TO ABRAHAM LINCOLN

They stay not in their hold

These stokers,

Stooping to hell

To feed a ship.

Below the ocean floors.

Before their awful doors

Bathed in flame,

I hear their human lives

Drip—drip.

Through the lolling aisles of comrades

In and out of sleep,

Troops of faces

To and fro of happy feet,

They haunt my eyes.

Their murky faces beckon me

From the spaces of the coolness of the sea

Their fitful bodies away against the skies.